Before my face, plain and palpable.
Joanna Baillie.
David Lindsay entered the room, with a graver air than usual overshadowing his frank countenance.
Mrs. Brent arose and offered him her own chair by the fire.
With a gesture, he silently thanked her, and signed that she should resume her seat, while he drew another to the hearth for himself, saying, as he sank into it:
“Well, I have been all over this house, from cellar to attic, and I must repeat now from knowledge what I said at first from suspicion, that this place is no home for any lady, and therefore none for you.”
“Why?” inquired Gloria, with provoking coolness.
“‘Why?’ My dear lady, the answer is in everything around you—in the desolation, the dreariness, the solitude——”
“I do not want company,” interrupted Gloria.
“In its remoteness from all the life of the world——”