All the
old memories were around her. It was winter time. She was alone, out of
doors. Snow, the familiar snow, was falling from a sombre sky; already
it lay deep on the boundless plains. It fell without ceasing. The sky
grew darker. Hours seemed to pass, and still the flakes descended. It
was not cold snow. It was warm snow--warm and rather suffocating. Very
suffocating. It began to choke her. Suddenly she found she could
breathe no more. She gave a wild cry of despair--
Her maid was standing beside the bed, a lighted candle in her hand.
Otherwise the room was in pitch darkness. Angelina looked like a
Tanagra statuette. Draped in nothing but a clinging nightgown that
reached two inches below the knee and accentuated the charm of her
figure, with the candle-light throwing playful gleams upon her neck and
cheeks, Angelina was an apparition to gladden the heart of man.
The heart of the Duchess was not gladdened by any means.
"What is the meaning of this, girl?" she enquired sternly, in what she
took to be the language of the country.
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