CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. Never be downhearted. ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure.
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