Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 180: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. 175 so quiet, orderly, and timid a woman as any to be met with- in the holy pale of church membership. In fine, though my whole being was thrilling with one of those preternatural fits of shuddering to which I am subject, I could not even to myself say—This is she? My obsorbing study was broken upon by my sister's strange caressing of my hand; she had drawn off my glove, and was now pressing my fingers in her own with almost in- sane eagerness. I turned and looked at her. What horror—what fear was this? What strong repres- sion on the rigid lips? What death-like pallor over the whole face? ° , Could that bland widow lady cause such dire emotions? Dark distrust blazed up in my heart in spite of all her seeming. — “Who is that woman?” I whispered, passionately; <‘tell me—fear nothing!” She only carried my hand to her lips, and gazed with furtive entreaty toward the sweetly smiling visitor, who at every movement, turned her face toward the cause, with a quickness which reminded me oddly of a bird of prey. She had been speaking ever since I came in, but it was only the commonplace of ceremony which she uttered; noth- ing could have been more polite, proper, or amiable than the phrases which she was mildly wading through. My mother answered by signs. Did my ears deceive me, or did I indeed detect the slightest accent of a foreign language on the lady’s tongue?. Do ladies from Vermont pronounce with an Italian accent? “‘T have spent a very pleasant afternoon with Miss Rienzi,” said Mrs. Ringwood, turning her blue glasses toward the sofa; ‘“‘I am charmed with such an acquaint- anceship.” My sister started, and fixed her eyes on the face of the widow lady as if she was fascinated, then rose to her feet, and as suddenly sank back again, taking my hand and con- vulsively pressing it. | | ‘Tam astonished to see how the time has slipped past,” continued Mrs. Ringwood, with a. shade more of decis- ion in her voice than there seemed occasion for; ‘‘and that it is almost’ three o’clock. Why! how the time has flown!” | CORNUCG OOO S (©)