She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him.
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