The old lawyer caressed his smoothly shaven chin and gazed out at
Joyce Lavillotte from under his shaggy eyebrows, as from the
port-holes of a castle, impressing her as being quite as
inscrutable of aspect and almost as belligerent. She, flushed and
bright-eyed, leaned forward with an appealing air, opposing the
resistless vigor of youth to the impassive-ness of age. "It is not
the crazy scheme you think it, Mr. Barrington," she said in that
liquid voice which was an inheritance from her creole ancestry,
"and I do not mean to risk my last dollar. You know I have means
that cannot be touched. Why should you be so sure I cannot manage
the Works-especially when Mr. Dalton is so capable and-" The lawyer
uttered something between a grunt and a laugh. "It's Mr. Dalton who
will manage it all. What do you know of the Works?" "No, he will
not, Mr. Barrington. The factory, of course, is his province, but
the village shall be mine.
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