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. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. Through no fault of her own. Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. “No. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. Don’t ask me how. " "I'm afraid I don't understand. ’ He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could muster. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused.
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