Somehow I haven’t connected the idea with you. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. “I’ve thought about it. I’m a female thing at bottom.
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