’ ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Miss Froxfield darkly, with a mischievous glance at her betrothed. Ludicrously loud sounds streamed from the array of speakers. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home.
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