" "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. " "What else did you do when alone?" "I read the encyclopaedia. She is the wife now of another man. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. Altogether different. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. And you think I would marry you?’ ‘Why not? I am unworthy, eh? Because I am a servant.
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