But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. “Never heard anything of it.
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