Explore "Paul Quentin" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Beads of perspiration broke out on Dugdale's forehead and an unusual glow suffused his cheek. He was aware of a sudden feeling of shame, but, uneasy as he was, he saw that the girl was moved by something besides anger and contempt. There was a look of almost pitiable appeal in her eyes. Even at that moment Dugdale was conscious of her beauty. She looked so dainty and refined and thoroughbred in her simple black dress. She was out of keeping and yet absolutely at home in those quaint old surroundings. Really, she was part and parcel of the picture. She seemed to be a kind of spirit of the place. The casement windows, the dull ceiling rafters, and this sombre flash of gold and silver and jewels in the bow-fronted window appeared to be all part of the same exquisite melody. As Dugdale lingered, the old man recovered himself, his business instinct being aroused anew. He passed a trembling hand over the yellow dome of his head. His grey beard was wagging up and down as if his toothless gums were chewing some indigestible food.
"My dear," he protested in a thin, piping voice, "why do you want to send the gentleman away? Probably he is a good customer, and we need them sorely, oh yes, so very sorely. What would you have, sir? We have everything here; not that they belong to us, oh no. We are far too poor for that. The great houses trust us, and we sell upon commission."