Explore "A Daughter of Israel" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Sir Percival rubbed his eyes to make certain that he would believe their fantastic evidence. He saw a stranger seated before the fire, his long limbs thrown up on each side of the mantelshelf, his body tilted back at the most comfortable angle in an armchair. The Baronet was conscious of a spasm of rage too deep for words, so he fell back, as angry men are apt to do, upon his most withering sarcasm.
"I have not, I believe, the honour of your acquaintance," he said, blandly; "but I beg that you will consider yourself at home."