and Mrs.
Sturk--hubble-bubble--Secretaries of State in the room of the Duke of
Grafton and General Conway--rubble-dubble--venerable prelate--ha-ha-ha!
hubble-bubble--filthy creature--hubble-bubble-rubble-dubble.'
And this did not make him much wiser or merrier. Love has its fevers,
its recoveries, and its relapses. The patient--nay even his nurse and
his doctor, if he has taken to himself such officers in his
distress--may believe the malady quite cured--the passion burnt out--the
flame extinct--even the smoke quite over, when a little chance puff of
rivalry blows the white ashes off, and, lo! the old liking is still
smouldering. But this was not Devereux's case. He remembered when his
fever--not a love one--and his leave of absence at Scarborough, and that
long continental tour of hers with Aunt Rebecca and Gertrude
Chattesworth, had carried the grave, large-eyed little girl away, and
hid her from his sight for more than a year, very nearly _two_ years,
the strange sort of thrill and surprise with which he saw her
again--tall and slight, and very beautiful--no, not _beautiful_,
perhaps, if you go to rule and compass, and Greek trigonometrical
theories; but there was an indescribable prettiness in all her features,
and movements, and looks, higher, and finer, and sweeter than all the
canons of statuary will give you.
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