“What he had was altogether insufficient. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She advanced, stabbing at him. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. I don’t suppose you could tell me even the derivation of suffrage if I asked you.
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