‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. Some of my schemes are already in hand. Instead of which they walked sharply. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes.
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