“Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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