You'll drive a much better bargain with me than with her." The banker coloured scarlet--he bit his lips and measured his companion from head to foot (while the latter lolled on the sofa), as if he were meditating the possibility of kicking him down-stairs.

But Luke Darvil would have thrashed the banker and all his clerks into the bargain.

His frame was like a trunk of thews and muscles, packed up by that careful dame, Nature, as tightly as possible; and a prizefighter would have thought twice before he had entered the ring against so awkward a customer.

The banker was a man prudent to a fault, and he pushed his chair six inches back, as he concluded his survey.
"Sir," then said he, very quietly, "do not let us misunderstand each other.

Your daughter is safe from your control--if you molest her, the law will protect--" "She is not of age," said Darvil.