I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan. On the way he confessed. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table.
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