"Mr. Benham!"
"You have said that your father is his friend."
"Oh!"
"I will not use the word 'spy' when speaking of your father."
[XX]
Nothing could have more clearly proved Nance Durrell's innocence than the indignation that leapt up in her like a white flame out of a fire. It was the anger of youth, swift, generous, and impulsive.
"You call Anthony Durrell a spy!"
"I called De Rothan a spy."
"How do you know? How do you know?"
He was more busy with her face and gestures than with her words. It was a wonderful love-play to him, with its quick kindlings, its red, passionate lips, its eyes that flashed out melodramatic scorn. The very way she breathed, and held her head, was sheer revelation.