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Mrs. Shelly, with a kindly good-night to Bruce, trotted after them, fumbling with her watch pocket. "Dido has nothing to do with my refusal," said the widow, coldly, "and although I take her advice in some things I do not in this. I do not wish Isabella to marry you, and I request you to leave my house--" "Yes, Mr. Alymer," replied Etwald, deliberately, "it reminds me of a man who died.".
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Lastly Etwald. It is difficult to describe the indescribable. He was austere in face, like Dante, with hollow cheeks, and a pallid hue which told of midnight studies. If he had passions, they could not be discerned in his features. Eye and mouth and general expression were like a mask. What actually lay behind that mask no one ever knew, for it was never off. His slightly hollow chest, his lean and nervous hands, and a shock of rather long, curling hair, tossed from a high forehead, gave Etwald the air of a student. But there was something sinister and menacing in his regard. He looked dangerous and more than a trifle uncanny. Physically, mentally, morally he was an enigma to the bovine inhabitants of Deanminster and Hurstleigh. "Well, let me take you home through the garden then—and, yes, I believe I'll stay to supper with Mrs. Henderson. Don't you want to tell me what a little girl like you did in a big city, and—and read me part of that Paris letter I saw the postman give Jane this afternoon?" Elinor gave a hasty assent, but Patricia was ardent. "I say deep things which you no understan'. Look at ole Dido, you white man.".
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