Belotti had told him the day before that the young lady seemed very ill, but since her aunt was receiving guests, Henrica was doubtless better.
The first story in the Hoogstraten mansion was brightly lighted, but in the second a faint, steady glow streamed into Nobelstrasse from a single window, while she for whom the lamp burned sat beside a table, her eyes sparkling with a feverish glitter, as she pressed her forehead against the marble top.

Henrica was entirely alone in the wide, lofty room her aunt had assigned her.

Behind curtains of thick faded brocade was her bedstead, a heavy structure of enormous width.

The other articles of furniture were large and shabby, but had once been splendid.

Every chair, every table looked as if it had been taken from some deserted banqueting-hall.