"It is true! My conjecture is true! Speak to me, Miss Wharton; I conjure
you, in mercy to my feelings, to tell me--do you love Dunwoodie?" There
was a plaintive earnestness in the voice of Miss Singleton that disarmed
Frances of all resentment, and the only answer she could make was to
hide her burning face between her hands, as she sank back in a chair to
conceal her confusion.
Isabella paced the floor in silence for several minutes, until she had
succeeded in conquering the violence of her feelings, when she
approached the place where Frances yet sat, endeavoring to exclude the
eyes of her companion from reading the shame expressed in her
countenance, and, taking the hand of the other, she spoke with an
evident effort at composure.
"Pardon me, Miss Wharton, if my ungovernable feelings have led me into
impropriety; the powerful motive--the cruel reason"--she hesitated.
Frances now raised her face, and their eyes once more met; they fell in
each other's arms, and laid their burning cheeks together. The embrace
was long--was ardent and sincere--but neither spoke; and on separating,
Frances retired to her own room without further explanation.
While this extraordinary scene was acting in the room of Miss Singleton,
matters of great importance were agitated in the drawing-room.
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