She was deep in a novel that reeled with ardent love, and had fallen to despising the lover because he did not resemble Richard.
It was in the library that Mr.Harley came seeking Dorothy.

When he found her, he stood stock-still, unable to speak one word of all that tide of talk which would be necessary to bring before her his dangerous perplexities and the one manner of their possible relief.
Dorothy at his step looked up, pleased to have him home so early.

She was about to say as much, but at sight of him the words perished on her tongue.

It was as though her heart were touched with ice.

Mr.Harley's countenance had been of that quasi claret hue called rubicund.