The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. “I feel fat! I already gained five pounds last week because I was stuck in bed with my ear infection. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. Still unconscious of anything he did physically. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. “I—I shall be all right directly. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night.
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