Now, Sir. He grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “But I am your husband,” he said. She was never announced as ‘Alcide,’ but directly she walked on she simply became ‘Alcide’ to every one.
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