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"It won't be her fault; but of course her people will object, which amounts to the same thing. She can't go against her people, you know." "Yes, Sir Nicholas,—just an hour and a half. He desired me to say he had had another 'dart' in his rheumatic knee this morning, so hoped you would excuse him." "We have all to do that at times," says Sir Nicholas. "And there is another person, mother, I shall be glad if you will send a card to.".
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"'Him'?—whom?"—demands her husband, with pardonable vivacity. So runs the letter. "But why?" asks the duchess. A strange scene presents itself to their expectant gaze. Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed of no flooring but the bare brown earth that Mother Nature has supplied. To their right is a huge fireplace, where, upon the hearthstone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Near it crouches an old woman with her blue-checked apron thrown above her head, who rocks herself to and fro in silent grief, and with every long-drawn breath—that seems to break from her breast like a stormy wave upon a desert shore—brings her old withered palms together with a gesture indicative of despair..
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