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"Set down there an' keep still as a mouse till I get back," he admonished. "I won't be long." So, then, as she sat at table she almost looked the same beautiful Lucy Acton who had left her house early one morning for[Pg 369] a walk in which she had met the hunchback Paul and read a letter he gave her. The old rich colour was indeed lacking; no charm of hat, no grace of coiffure, no elegance of costume could immediately qualify or dispel the languor of fatigue in the eyes, the delicate shadow pencilled by worry and an enormous mental strain under the eyes, and a general expression in movements of silence or repose, of anxiety, pain, and another quality which you might have seen was present without being able to give it a name. "Are ye speaking to me?" said old John. Mrs. Wilson caught her breath, but whatever objections her mind raised against the last named remained unuttered. All she said was. "This is your party, Willium. Anybody else, now?".