"I was coming to see you to-morrow," said she; "but now to-morrow you
will come and see me."
She named the hour, and I promised compliance.
The morrow's evening found me with her--she and I shut into her own
room. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims were
brought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had so
signally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in the
interval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tete-a-
tete, a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear
soft voice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. My
own attention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, she
herself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind up
her narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise an
abridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed--a restless
silence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, in
a diffident, half-appealing voice--"Lucy--"
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