"
He was going to say chemise, but race was race, and vestiges of native
French chivalry stayed the gross simile on the lips of the degenerate.
Fleda's eyes, however, took on a dark and brooding look which, more
than anything else, showed the Romany in her. With a murky flood of
resentment rising in her veins, she strove to fight back the half-savage
instincts of a bygone life. She felt as though she could willingly
sentence this man to death as her father had done Jethro Fawe that very
morning. Another thought, however, was working and fighting in her--that
Marchand was better as a friend than an enemy; and that while Ingolby's
fate was in the balance, while yet the Orange funeral had not taken place
and the strikes had not yet come, it might be that he could be won over
to Ingolby. Her mind was thus involuntarily reproducing Ingolby's
policy, as he had declared it to Jowett and Rockwell. It was to find
Felix Marchand's price, and to buy off his enmity--not by money, for
Marchand did not need that, but by those other coins of value which are
individual to each man's desires, passions and needs.
"Once a Frenchman isn't always a Frenchman," she replied coolly,
disregarding the coarse insolence of his last utterance.
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