Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Silk. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Can I give him any message for you?” “Thank you,” Anna answered. Two persons, besides the clergyman and sexton, alone attended the ceremony. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. ‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt.
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