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Intense horror raised my hair on end. I felt the hideous truth freeze me from head to foot like ice. I had shaken off the long coma which for many hours had stricken me with corpselike rigidity. Yes, I could move; my hands could feel the boards of my coffin; my lips parted; words came to me, and instinctively I called out Marguerite's name. It was a scream I raised.
Just as the train was starting a voice exclaimed, "Miss Verne here are some violets, I brought them purposely to match your eyes." The fairy-like child placed the treasures in Marguerite's hand and bounded away without further comment. "She is a good child," said Phillip, waving adieu to his companion and hurrying towards the carriage awaiting him.
The finest and best of the flax was saved for spinning into thread, for cotton thread there was none, excepting, possibly, a little of very poor quality in small skeins. The small wheel that we see in the far corner of the garret just like Marguerite's was used for spinning the fine thread.
"But enough of this for the present, my dear," said Mrs. Verne, then instantly changing look, tone and manner, exclaimed, "It is strange that we have not heard from home. Madge, I trust, things are not growing worse. Indeed, I feel uneasy, but we must be prepared; nothing seems improbable nowadays." It was Marguerite's turn now to speak.
There was a bit, of wire loose at the lower end of the screen, and, in the one second Marguerite's back was turned just one second, but just long enough Missy saw a velvety nose fumble with the loose wire, saw a sleek neck wedge itself through the crevice, and a long red tongue lap approvingly over the sugar-coated crust. Missy gasped audibly.
She heard the whine of his voice pattering the Latin of the mass, which he was reciting backwards from the last gospel; and occasionally she heard responses muttered by her mother, who with Mademoiselle Desceillets was beyond Marguerite's narrow range of vision.
And, after all, one can only eat and drink the best that are to be obtained, and the best costs so little a mere drop in the ocean." He handed Tony the decanter as he spoke. "Then I married Marguerite's mother, some years afterwards, when I was a middle-aged man. She was the only daughter of the bank, you know." And that seemed to be all that there was to be said about Marguerite's mother.
Laubépin, a priest, and a doctor were standing on one side, and Marguerite and her mother were kneeling down in prayer on the other. I saw at once that she was at the point of death, and knelt down beside Marguerite. The poor dying woman smiled faintly, and groped for my hand and put it in Marguerite's, and then fell back on the pillow. She was dead.
And she resumed her perusal: "Your letter, which I have just received, confirms what my servants had already told me: that twice during my absence on Saturday evening and Sunday morning you called at my house to see me." So Mademoiselle Marguerite's penetration had served her well.
Learning, however, was far from absorbing the whole of this young soul. "She," says a contemporary, "had an agreeable voice of touching tone, which roused the tender inclinations that there are in the heart." Tenderness, a passionate tenderness, very early assumed the chief place in Marguerite's soul, and the first object of it was her brother Francis.
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