Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. Don’t you care for Nigel at all?” Anna was silent for a moment or two. No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered.
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