"Of two things one: either Jacintha quits
those aristos, or I leave Jacin--eh?--ah!--oh!--ahem! How--'ow d'ye do,
Jacintha?" And his roar ended in a whine, as when a dog runs barking
out, and receives in full career a cut from his master's whip, his
generous rage turns to whimper with ludicrous abruptness. "I was just
talking of you, Jacintha," quavered Dard in conclusion.
"I heard you, Dard," replied Jacintha slowly, softly, grimly.
Dard withered.
It was a lusty young woman, with a comely peasant face somewhat
freckled, and a pair of large black eyes surmounted by coal-black brows.
She stood in a bold attitude, her massive but well-formed arms folded so
that the pressure of each against the other made them seem gigantic, and
her cheek red with anger, and her eyes glistening like basilisks upon
citizen Dard. She looked so grand, with her lowering black brows, that
even Riviere felt a little uneasy. As for Jacintha, she was evidently
brooding with more ire than she chose to utter before a stranger. She
just slowly unclasped her arms, and, keeping her eye fixed on Dard,
pointed with a domineering gesture towards Beaurepaire.
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