It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. “I mean it.
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