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"You see, you've helped already." It was pleasant, drinking tea like this, with John Bradford there, opposite, having his second cup. A pleasant way to drink tea with a John! Miss Theodosia hugged herself happily. Even the forgotten little nightgown on the floor failed to diminish her content.
Awakened by the light of the candle and by the mouse-like noise made by the seeker, Madame Nanteuil demanded: "Who is there?" Immediately, perceiving the familiar little phantom in her long nightgown, with a heavy plait of hair down her back, perched on a chair, she exclaimed: "It's you, Félicie? You are not ill, are you? What are you doing there?" "I am looking for something." "In my wardrobe?"
The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it a little wistfully and placed the other beside it. They were very dark, little feet a queer, brown colour and the legs above them, were the same curious brown and the small straight back as she stepped from the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the clothes on the chair.
As soon as she was alone she laid back the flannel which lay round the child's head, and examined every inch of its downy poll and puckered face, her warm breath making the tiny lips twitch in sleep as it travelled across them. Then she lifted the little nightgown and looked at the pink feet nestling in their flannel wrapping.
Unsparing and matter-of-fact, her mind darted to his relations with her own mother. Had he ever really loved her? She thought not. Jon was the son of the woman he had really loved. Surely, then, he ought not to mind his daughter loving him; it only wanted getting used to. And a sigh of sheer relief was caught in the folds of her nightgown slipping over her head.
Later the hearth-brush was dressed in a nightgown and laid beside Sara in her little bed. The last thing she did before going to sleep was to gaze at her darling "blush" with rapture and say, "Nasty 'ollid bunny!" Her eyelashes fluttered and then gently fell on her cheek, as a butterfly hovers and then settles on the petal of a rose.
But as a matter of fact Lucia does know two other words. Once I ironed a very starched nightgown. It was a very, very large and gathered nightgown. I held it up and made Lucia look at it. Lucia snickered. “Da big-a, da fat-a!” said Lucia. Mrs. Reilly let out a squeal. “She's learnt English!” Mrs. Reilly called down the line. “And,” I announce, “I'll teach her 'da small-a, da thin-a.”
The pinch of the question is why, after having provided the substitute dress, does she hide the smeared nightgown, instead of destroying it? If the girl won't speak out, there is only one way of settling the difficulty. The hiding-place at the Shivering Sand must be searched and the true state of the case will be discovered there." "How are you to find the place?" I inquired.
"You're homesick for a place you never set eyes on? Then some one you love must be there." This time the tears could not be kept back. The young woman had begun her work of gathering up Angela's belongings, and lest the tears should fall on a lace nightgown she was folding, she laid it on a chair, to search wildly for her handkerchief. "Do excuse me, if ye can, miss," she choked.
Over her nightgown, she had thrown on a Japanese kimono of ashen blue, embroidered in plum blossoms which looked wilted. Everything about her, Corinna thought, looked wilted, as if each inanimate object that surrounded her had been stricken by the hopelessness of her spirit. To Corinna's energetic temperament, there was something positively immoral in this languid resignation.
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