He filled her glass with champagne. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. It brought no coconut. How came you by the hurt, eh?" "How did I come by it?—that's a nate question. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion.
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