“What was that?” she asked sharply. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Go on and tell me. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. “Very well,” he said. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now.
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