Explore "The Missioner" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"And now," she said, throwing herself into an easy-chair and taking up a fan, "we can talk."
He refused the chair which she had motioned him to wheel up to the fire. He stood glowering down upon her, pale, stern, yet not wholly master of himself. Against the sombre black of her dress, her neck and bosom shone like alabaster. She played with her pearls, and looked up at him with that faint maddening curl of the lips which he so loved and so hated.