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"She hasn't been studying long, has she?" asked Miriam, with her eyes intent on the long blue curtain that screened the decoration from sight. "Yes, Mr. Alymer," replied Etwald, deliberately, "it reminds me of a man who died." At the same time she was afraid lest further trouble should occur therein, for it seemed to her that Etwald had paid this visit for the express purpose of making himself disagreeable..

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"Haven't heard of it," replied Margaret Howes, with eager interest. "What is it? And who's giving it?" He was half-clothed, pale as the white dress of Isabella Dallas, and evidently, from the wild look in his eyes and the quivering of his nether lip, badly scared. Stopping short a few paces from the door, he held up the lamp which he carried, to survey the astonishing scene before him. The sight of Jen tongue-tied and immovable, of Isabella weeping on her knees by the bedside, of the bed itself vacant of its dead occupant--all these things were calculated to shock even stronger nerves than those of David Sarby. Nevertheless, after a pause of sheer astonishment, he managed to stammer out a question: All about the spacious hall were groups of Arabians, of fair Circassians, of dusky Nubians and turbaned Turks, while the rustle of costly fabrics and the odor of heavy Eastern perfumes floated in the air; the modern city outside in the wintry electric lights was well forgot in the enchantment of the moment, and Patricia lost count of time and sense of self in the pageant that swept across the lofty chamber to make its obeisance at the imperial divan. "If I thought that--. But," added Jen, breaking off, "how did you know that David was in London?".