Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. ‘Where did you get that, miss?’ ‘It is the sword of monsieur le major. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth.
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