Mr. Trevelyan is a handsome man, his face in perfect proportion. He has dark hair and eyebrows and deep-set brown eyes which presently look at me as if I have three heads. I return his stare. “Forgive me,” he says, “I like to assess my clients. Mr. Carruthers tells me you’re determined to go forward with this suit. Why?”
I get out my handkerchief and blot the sweat from my face. How shall I phrase my anguish? How much does he already know? “May I have a glass of water?” I ask.
Mr. Trevelyan motions to his clerk who leaves to fetch one. It’s difficult to talk to Mr. Trevelyan. He has no facial expression.
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