She paused a moment, then entered.
"Did you see her, Florry ?" "No, she is absent, but I left word for her." Her tone was hard, dry, as though she had been striving long for some goal, which, when nearly attained, her failing strength was scarce able to grasp.

It was the echo of a fearful struggle that had raged in her proud bosom.

The knell it seemed of expiring exertion, of sinking resistance.

Mary gazed sadly on her cousin, who stood mechanically smoothing her glossy black hair.

The haughty features seemed chiseled in marble, so cold, stony was the expression.
"Dear Florry! you look harassed and weary already.