E. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions— From patches, justly placed, they borrow'd graces, And with vermilion lacquer'd o'er their faces. “Where are they?” She looked around. “I have never forgotten. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern.
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