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thelberta. 'Has everything gone right with the house this evening?' 'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she is going to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.' 'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants. Some day she will let drop something or other before father can stop her.' 'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her. She was kneeling in front of the couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder and shaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple, and breathed out upon her cheek: 'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told you just now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan't be able to to-morrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of a long time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said he was your young man too, and--and I didn't know what to do then, because I thought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn't mean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want to do it, either; it would come to me! And I didn't know he belonged to you when I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no I wouldn't!' 'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whispered Ethelberta. 'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it. We used to meet on the road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round. But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn't bide in Sandbourne, and--and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted to see you, Berta, but because I--I wanted--' 'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly. 'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and that caused--a confusion!' 'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee soothingly. 'You ought not of course to have come to London in such a manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it. Perhaps it may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?' 'Then don't you want him, Berta?' 'O no; not at all!' 'What--and don't you really want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, starting up. 'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort of man I should wish to--think it best to marry, even if I were to marry, which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see me because we are o
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