She stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Aha!" he continued, producing a short silver staff, which he carried constantly about with him, and uttering a terrible imprecation, "I see you're confounded. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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