Joan? Ah yes, to be sure,--very handsome,
and--disappeared. No one knew why, but now,--I begin to understand.
You would suggest--"
"That she became the honorable wife of my father, John Barty, the
celebrated pugilist and ex-champion of England, now keeper of a
village inn," said Barnabas, speaking all in a breath, but
maintaining his steadfast gaze.
"Eh?" cried the Duchess, and rose to her feet with astonishing
ease for one of her years, "eh, sir, an innkeeper! And your
mother--actually married him?" and the Duchess shivered.
"Yes, madam. I am their lawful son."
"Dreadful!" cried the Duchess, "handsome Joan Beverley--married to
an--inn-keeper! Horrible! She'd much better have died--say, in a
ditch--so much more respectable!"
"My father is an honorable man!" said Barnabas, with upflung head.
"Your father is--an inn-keeper!"
"And--my father, madam!"
"The wretch!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Oh, frightful!" and she
shivered again.
"And his son--loves Cleone!"
"Dreadful! Frightful" cried the Duchess. "An inn-keeper's son! Beer
and skittles and clay pipes! Oh, shocking!" And here, shuddering for
the third time as only a great lady might, she turned her back on him.
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