"Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. " "As in a dream. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. Sometimes I am frightfully busy; and then there will be periods of dullness.
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