“It isn’t only the dance,” she said. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution. She gloried in it: he needed her.
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