She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground.
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