A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. He had said so. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. She must not tell Martha about Gerald. Both girls looked pale and listless.
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