"I am afraid I don't understand you, Mr. Lyne."Odette Rider looked gravely at the young man who lolled against his open desk. Her clearskin was tinted with the faintest pink, and there was in the sober depths of those grey eyesof hers a light which would have warned a man less satisfied with his own genius andpower of persuasion than Thornton Lyne.He was not looking at her face. His eyes were running approvingly over her perfect figure, noting the straightness of the back, the fine poise of the head, the shapeliness of the slenderhands.He pushed back his long black hair from his forehead and smiled. It pleased him to believethat his face was cast in an intellectual mould, and that the somewhat unhealthy pastinessof his skin might be described as the "pallor of thought."Presently he looked away from her through the big bay window which overlooked thecrowded floor of Lyne's Stores.He had had this office built in the entresol and the big windows had been put in so that hemight at any time overlook the most important department which it was his good fortuneto control
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