“Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. "What has caused this quarrel, Thames?" asked the little girl, anxiously. “I didn’t know you objected to him, daddy. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
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