Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Not afraid of me, either. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. “My dear,” the letter ran, “I have to tell you that your sister Gwen has offended your father very much. But Manning seemed more and more clearly indicated as a refuge, as security. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement.
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