Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. “A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. For all that, it is folly. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. By the intense look of him, she guessed that she had just encountered for the first time the boy genius Martin Chen. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience.
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