When she slipped off of it her head started to bob, filled with air. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said.
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