A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. Neither the manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. Come and see him, Lucia. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She would marry him. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. “Look at me. ” “Not for you?” “No.
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