It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Still no sound. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. ’ She tossed her head. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. To-night we leave for Marseilles. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. ” “I’ve been clearing up,” said Ann Veronica, brightly. Miss Mary and me, and Martha too sometimes. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said.
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