"What's a whacking more or
less when you're used to 'em?"
His dark eyes laughed their impudent dismissal to the old man. It was
very evident that he desired to put an end to the matter, and after a
moment Sir Beverley grunted and withdrew.
He had not asked what he wanted to know; somehow it had not been
possible. He had desired to put his question in a whirl of righteous
indignation, but in some fashion Piers had disarmed him and it had
remained unuttered.
The very sight of the straight, young figure had quenched the fire of
his wrath. Confound the boy! Did he think he could insult him as he had
insulted him only that afternoon and then twist him round his little
finger? He would have it out with him presently. He would have the truth
and no compromise, if he had to wring it out of him. He would--Again the
vision of those strong young shoulders, with red stripes crossing their
gleaming white surface, rose before Sir Beverley. He swore a strangled
oath. No, he hadn't meant to punish the boy to that extent, his infernal
impudence notwithstanding. It wasn't the first time he had thrashed him,
and, egad, it mightn't be the last. But he hadn't meant to administer
quite such a punishment as that. It was decent of the young rascal not to
sulk after it, though he wasn't altogether sure that he approved of the
light fashion with which Piers had elected to treat the whole episode.
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