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Updated: August 23, 2024
I took the stranger into the little boudoir across the hall. As we went he asked me: "Are you the secretary?" "No! I am a friend of Miss Trelawny's. My name is Ross." "Thank you very much, Mr. Ross, for your kindness!" he said. "My name is Corbeck. I would give you my card, but they don't use cards where I've come from. And if I had had any, I suppose they, too, would have gone last night "
And not one human being in a million will pity you. You are a living tragedy which only death can end." During this disconcerting session Eve had been mysteriously engaged in the boudoir. She now came into the dark bedroom. "What?" she softly murmured, hearing Mr. Prohack's restlessness. "Not asleep, darling?"
The door was shut, and Filippo, letting Mary Stuart's train drop without further ceremony, sprang forward and touched the arm of his royal mistress. "Where is she?" "In her boudoir." The page would have gone thither at once; but Lucretia stopped him. "Mark my words well. Speak low; and when Victorine summons you away, obey at once, for delay may cost you your life.
I have heard her tell of long rides by night, of a boudoir hung with grass-green satin, and of a tryst at Windsor; of one, the wife of a hussar at York, whose little lap-dog used to bark angrily whenever the Regent came near his mistress; of a milkmaid who, in her great simpleness, thought her child would one day be King of England; of an arch-duchess with blue eyes, and a silly little flautist from Portugal; of women that were wantons and fought for his favour, great ladies that he loved dearly, girls that gave themselves to him humbly.
She discussed the subject of Mexican help without self-consciousness. And for the first time since Sylvia's marriage there was music on the piano up in the boudoir. Mrs. Mendoza played with a passionateness which was quite out of keeping with her mask-like expression. It was like finding a pearl in an oyster, hearing her at the piano.
A great artist may idle away a morning in a woman's boudoir; a simple teacher of languages must be more industrious." "But I am not a great artist," said Nino, whose vanity we all have it began to flutter a little. "You will be one before long, and one of the greatest. You are a boy yet, my little tenor," said she, looking at him with her dark eyes, "and I might almost be your mother.
Within the last hour the wind had shifted into the North-West; that is to say, it was now blowing right down the path along which we had picked our way; in order to return, therefore, it would be necessary to work the ship to windward through a sea as thickly crammed with ice as a lady's boudoir is with furniture.
"They were rich people, they were people of distinction born in grandeur, and brought up in it. Wheugh wheugh!" whistled the wind; then it continued the tale. "I never saw there, as in other old mansions, the high-born lady sitting in her boudoir with her maidens and spinning-wheels. She played on the lute, and sang to it, though never the old Danish ballads, but songs in foreign languages.
This will, I trust, quiet them on the subject of their costs, and also prevent any low dodging on the part of the purchaser. This letter would almost seem to have been written with a supernatural knowledge of what was passing in Gylingden, and was certainly well contrived to prevent the vicar from wavering. But all this time the ladies are conversing in Dorcas's boudoir.
And who sits in this delicate boudoir perfumed with a faint scent, a sachet-scented pocket-handkerchief? Surely one of Sargent's ladies. Perhaps the lady in the shot-silk dress who sat on an eighteenth-century French sofa two years ago in the Academy, her tiny, plump, curved white hand, drawn as well in its interior as in exterior limits, hanging over the gilt arm of the sofa.
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