“I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. Dorling said deferentially. The smell that emanated from the opening was abominable. I have only just left Wych Street. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. After all, what could happen? He was looking at her very hard and earnestly. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful.
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