I have called them social afflictions for want
of a better term. Mrs. Topman was the highest example of the species.
She had been beating about on the outskirts of society without gaining
an entrance into it until she was like a faded bouquet that had lost its
freshness and perfume. In short, she was a tall, rakish looking craft,
with ingeniously painted head-gear, carrying an immense amount of sail,
and flying colors not recognized by good society in Bowling Green--at
least not on the West side.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MRS. CHAPMAN GIVES A BALL.
It was a cold, dark night in December. The wind was blowing fresh from
the northeast, the tall trees on the Battery were in commotion, and the
ships in the harbor, seen through a pale mist, were straining at their
anchors. A thin, pale mist hung over the sombre old fort on the Battery,
over the trees, over the ships, over everything within the eye's reach.
And the mist and the solemn beating sound of the sea-wail, in which the
sailor fancies he can read all his sorrows, gave a weird and mysterious
appearance to the scene.
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