"A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. She thought of all sorts of odd and desperate expedients, and with passionate petulance rejected them all. Wood a very free-and-easy sort of stare, winked at Mr. ‘Possibly,’ he said. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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