Be sure these goblins made obeisance to Sir Peter Clashthought, as he
passed by, starched beacon of squirearchy, wife on arm, sons to heel.
After him, certain members of the household--rose-chapped males and
females, bearing books of worship. The pack of goblins glance up
the drive with nudging elbows and whisperings of "Where is daughter
Euphemia? Where Sir Rebus, her affianced?"
Off they scamper for a peep through the windows of the house. They
throng the sill of the library, ears acock and eyelids twittering
admiration of a prospect. Euphemia was in view of them--essence of
her. Sir Rebus was at her side. Nothing slips the goblins.
"Nymph in the Heavy Dragoons" was Mrs. Cryptic-Sparkler's famous
definition of her. The County took it for final--an uncut gem with
a fleck in the heart of it. Euphemia condoned the imagery. She had
breadth. Heels that spread ample curves over the ground she stood on,
and hands that might floor you with a clench of them, were hers. Grey
eyes looked out lucid and fearless under swelling temples that were
lost in a ruffling copse of hair. Her nose was virginal, with hints of
the Iron Duke at most angles. Square chin, cleft centrally, gave
her throat the look of a tower with a gun protrudent at top.
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