There was a gentle rustling of skirts. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. “I have never seen him in my life,” she said to the official. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. Heaven alone knows why. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. "I guessed from your dress and manner, Sir, that you must have been long absent from your own country," said Kneebone; "and now I'm convinced of it, or you wouldn't have asked that question.
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