But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own.
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