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nnot be very strong, as she sat down through the Psalms," enters. At first she seems uncertain _which_ to greet as bride and hostess; indeed, I can see that her earliest impulse is to turn from the small insignificance in silk, to the tall little loveliness in cotton, and as I perceive it, a little arrow--not of jealousy, for, thank God, I never was jealous of our Barbara--never--but of pain at my so palpable inferiority, shoots through all my being. But Barbara draws back, and our visitor perceives her error. We sit down, but the brunt of the talk falls on Barbara. I am never glib with strangers, and I throw in a word only now and then, all my attention and observation having passed into my eyes. A plain woman, indeed! I have always been convinced of the unbecomingness of church, but _now_ more than ever am I fully persuaded of it. And yet she is not pretty! Her mouth is very wide, that is perhaps why she so rarely laughs; her nose cannot say much for itself; her cheeks are thin, and I _think_--nay, let me tell truth--I _hope_ that in a low gown she would be _scraggy_, so slight even to meagreness is she! But how thoroughly made the most of! What a shapeless pin-cushion fit my gown seems beside the admirable French sit of hers! How hard, how metallic its tint beside the indefinite softness of that sweep of smoke-color! What a stiff British erection my hair feels beside the careless looseness of these shining twists! What a fine, slight hand, as if cut in faint gray stone! At each fresh detail that I note, Musgrave's anecdote gains ever more and more probability; and my heart sinks ever lower and more low. _One_ hope remains to me. Perhaps she may be stupid! Certainly she is not _affording_. How heavily poor Barbara is driving through the fine weather and the _Times_! and how little more than "yes" and "no" does she get! I take heart. Roger loves people who talk--people who are merry and make jests. It was my most worthless gabble that first drew him toward me. Cheered and emboldened by this thought, I swoop down like a sudden eagle to the rescue. "You know Rog--, my husband, do not you?" I say, with an abrupt bluntness that contrasts finely with the languid gentleness with which her little remarks steal out like mice. _Mine_ rushes forth like a desolating bomb-shell. "A little--yes." "You knew him in India, did not you?" say I, unable to resist the temptation of seizing this opportunity to gratify my cu
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