One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. You never can go back. "We'll see that," replied Jonathan. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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