” “I will tell him,” Lady Lescelles said. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. “You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. Spurlock. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. I never forgive an injury. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes.
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