" "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. Smith's melody had subsided. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. “Mary Lucia. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. Wait!" He released himself from his aunt's embrace, ran to the trunk and fetched the old coat. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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