Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. ” She was silent. ” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. We felt like thieves.
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