With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. Earles, but it is a good one. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. That glove is still preserved.
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