"Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab," said Aylmer, "and burn
a pastil."
"Yes, master," answered Aminadab, looking intently at the lifeless
form of Georgiana; and then he muttered to himself, "If she were my
wife, I'd never part with that birthmark."
When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an
atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had
recalled her from her deathlike faintness. The scene around her looked
like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre
rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits,
into a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded abode
of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains, which
imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other species
of adornment can achieve; and, as they fell from the ceiling to the
floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and
straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space.
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