Clair, the French mistress. Now, from what source
she did not know, fear and passion flowed into her. Nothing could have
been more amiable and genial than the figure that he presented.
As always, his clothes were beautifully neat and correct, his linen
spotless white, his black boots gleaming.
He beamed upon them all, and Joan felt, behind her, the response that the
whole room made to him. They liked him; she knew it. He was becoming
popular.
He had towards them all precisely the right attitude; he was not amiable
and childish like the Dean, nor pompous like Bentinck-Major, nor
sycophantic like Ryle. He did not advance to them but became, as it were,
himself one of them, understanding exactly the way that they wanted him.
And Joan hated him; she hated his red face and his neatness and his broad
chest and his stout legs--everything, everything! She also feared him. She
had never before, although for long now she had been conscious of his
power, been so deeply aware of his connection with herself. It was as
though his round shadow had, on this lovely afternoon, crept forward a
little and touched with its dim grey for the first time the Brandon house.
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