She must not show anything. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. Or, if this goodlooking young fellow will only say the word, I'll go with him. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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