“Lord! And who would have her?”
“She is something of a bargain—in movables. There are plenty of debtors and fools.”
“The persuading would lie elsewhere. The girl has a sort of sullen stubbornness that is worse than temper.”
Stephen Gore shook his periwig with the action of an impatient horse shaking its mane.
“I suppose these mopes were put on with her mourning. The girl wants the merry devil in her rousing. Jove, Nan, but she’s your child; there must be blood somewhere.”
Anne Purcell picked up a fan, spread it with an impatient whisk of the hand, and glanced uneasily at the closed door. She started up brusquely, crossed the room, flung the door open suddenly, and looked down the long gallery as though to prove that they were not being spied upon. Then she returned to her tapestried chair.
“Well, have you any plan?”
My lord licked his upper lip, a sly smile spreading over his healthy face.
“Will she go out with you?”
“Sometimes. To the old, dull houses where they wear starched aprons and have the servants in to prayers.”