She quitted the bed, with a spring to escape her imagined lord; and as if she had felt him to be there, she lay down no more.

A quiet life like that was flatter to her idea than a handsomely bound big book without any print on the pages, and without a picture.

Her contemplation of it, contrasted with the life waved to her view by the timepiece, set her whole system rageing; she burned to fly.

Providently, nevertheless, she thumped a pillow, and threw the bedclothes into proper disorder, to inform the world that her limbs had warmed them, and that all had been impulse with her.

She then proceeded to disrobe, murmuring to herself that she could stop now, and could stop now, at each stage of the advance to a fresh dressing of her person, and moralizing on her singular fate, in the mouth of an observer.