With Margaret it
was just the opposite. When we got in, she excused herself and went off to
her own room, coming back, after a weary time, in such a glory of silks
and satins that I blinked my eyes before her dazzlements. What made it
worse was that there was a comb--as she called it, though I should in my
ignorance have thought it some rich and rare work in filigree belonging to
an empress--which, owing to the smallness of her mirror and the poor
light, she could not get to sit perfectly in its golden cushion, and I was
bidden to put it where and as it ought to be. I was a long time over the
task, in part because I was really clumsy, but mainly because I was in no
hurry. I got it right at last, and even ventured, very craftily and
lightly, to kiss it as it lay there.
"It's quite right now," said I.
"At last! I'm afraid it's been a trouble to you. Now, Oliver, open the
bottle of olives, and, while we eat them, tell me all about the ghost."
Many a time in the hard days that came to me later, I refreshed my soul
by thinking those happy hours over again. They are part of me, but no part
of my story, and I make no record of them here.
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