With every word she grew less and less like the Mrs.De Peyster of M.Dubois's masterpiece.

At the close of the long narrative, made longer by frequent outbursts of misery, she could have posed for a masterpiece of humiliation.
"It's all been bad enough," she moaned at the end; "what's happened is all bad enough, but think what's yet to come! It's all coming out! Everybody will be laughing at me--oh!--oh!--oh!--" Mrs.De Peyster was drifting away into inarticulate lamentations, when there came a tramping sound upon the stairway.

She drew herself up.
"What's that ?" There was a loud rap upon the door.
"I say, Judge Harvey, Mr.De Peyster," called out a voice.

"What's all this delay about ?" "Who is it ?" breathed Mrs.De Peyster.
"That infernal Mayfair, and the whole gang of reporters!" exclaimed Jack.
"Oh, Jack,--Judge Harvey! Save me! Save me!" "The hour set for the funeral is passed," Mayfair continued to call, "the drawing-room is packed with people, and the body hasn't arrived yet.

We don't want to make ourselves obnoxious, but it's almost press-time for the next edition, and we've got to know what's doing.
You know what a big story this is.