Miriam was nearest to the hearth.

He could see that her eyes were aglow--possibly with anger.
Barebone shrugged his shoulders.
"You are not an agent--you are an advocate," he said.
Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering animal that has been prodded.
"Yes," he said--"your advocate.

There is one more chance I should advise any man to shun--to cast to the four winds, and hold on only to that tangible possibility of happiness in the present--it is the chance of enjoying, in some dim and distant future, the satisfaction of having, in a half-forgotten past, done one's duty.

One's first duty is to secure, by all legitimate means, one's own happiness." "What is the proposition ?" interrupted Barebone, quickly; and Turner, beneath his heavy lids, had caught in the passing the glance from Miriam's eyes, for which possibly both he and Loo Barebone had been waiting.
"Fifty thousand pounds," replied the banker, bluntly, "in first-class English securities, in return for a written undertaking on your part to relinquish all claim to any heritage to which you may think yourself entitled in France.

You will need to give your word of honour never to set foot on French soil--and that is all." "I never, until this moment," replied Barebone, "knew the value of my own pretensions." "Yes," said Turner, quietly; "that is the obvious retort.