It was dark when he entered the Castle. He was about ascending to his
own room, when he determined not to be cowed, and resolved to show
himself the regardless witness of their mutual loves: so he repaired to
the drawing-room. At one end of this very spacious apartment, Mr. Dacre
and Arundel were walking in deep converse; at the other sat Miss Dacre
at a table reading. The Duke seized a chair without looking at her,
dragged it along to the fireplace, and there seating himself, with his
arms folded, his feet on the fender, and his chair tilting, he appeared
to be lost in the abstracting contemplation of the consuming fuel.
Some minutes had passed, when a slight sound, like a fluttering bird,
made him look up: Miss Dacre was standing at his side.
'Is your head better?' she asked him, in a soft voice.
'Thank you, it is quite well,' he replied, in a sullen one.
There was a moment's pause, and then she again spoke.
'I am sure you are not well.'
'Perfectly, thank you.'
'Something has happened, then,' she said, rather imploringly.
'What should have happened?' he rejoined, pettishly.
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