If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. "What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. Martin’s crush. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion.
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