I am afraid I don't understand you, Mr. Lyne. Odette Rider looked
gravely at the young man who lolled against his open desk. Her
clear skin was tinted with the faintest pink, and there was in the
sober depths of those grey eyes of hers a light which would have
warned a man less satisfied with his own genius and power of
persuasion than Thornton Lyne. He was not looking at her face. His
eyes were running approvingly over her perfect figure, noting the
straightness of the back, the fine poise of the head, the
shapeliness of the slender hands. He pushed back his long black
hair from his forehead and smiled. It pleased him to believe that
his face was cast in an intellectual mould, and that the somewhat
unhealthy pastiness of his skin might be described as the "pallor
of thought."
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