It was a slow heavy countenance, but not without
comeliness. The skin was fresh as a child's, the eyes were large, blue,
and mild, and the brown hair grew in waves that many a woman might have
envied. Indeed had it not been for a short but strongly growing beard,
it would have been easy to believe that the countenance was that of a
boy of nineteen rather than of a man over thirty. Neither time nor care
had drawn a single line upon it; it told of perfect and robust health
and yet bore the bloom of childhood. It was the face of a man who might
live to a hundred and still look young, nor did the form belie it.
Mr. Davies blushed up to his eyes, blushed like a girl beneath
Elizabeth's scrutiny. "Naturally I take an interest in a neighbour's
fate," he said, in his slow deliberate way. "She is quite safe, then?"
"I believe so," answered Elizabeth.
"Thank God!" he said, or rather it seemed to break from him in a sigh of
relief. "How did the gentleman, Mr. Bingham, come to be found with her?"
"How should I know?" she answered with a shrug. "Beatrice saved his life
somehow, clung fast to him even after she was insensible.
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