She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. You heard her. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He was helpful, but gravely dubious.
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