She had finally managed to start breaking him down. "What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. ” She stared hard at her finger-nails.
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