A small ormolu clock ticked rapidly upon the mantel-piece, the
swing of the gilded pendulum being visible beneath. Bressant watched it
with idle interest. He felt so weak, in mind and body, that the clock
seemed company just fitted for his comprehension.
The door opened by-and-by, and Cornelia's smiling face peeped in,
looking the sweeter for an expression of tender anxiety. Seeing that he
was awake, her eyes took on an extra sparkle, and she advanced a step
into the room, still clinging with one hand to the door-knob, however,
as if afraid to lose its support.
"You feel a little better, don't you? Is that mattress comfortable? I'm
going to bring you your breakfast in a few minutes."
Bressant only grew red and bit his mustache for answer. He would gladly
have covered himself up out of sight, but he could not move hand or
foot.
Cornelia had in her mind a little speech she meant to deliver to
Bressant, on the subject of the previous night's event, but, at the
critical moment, she felt her courage forsaking her. The topic was so
weighty--and then she shrank from speaking out what was in her head,
perhaps because her auditor was there as well as her sentiments. Still,
she felt she ought to try.
"Mr. Bressant," began she, with a kindling look, "Mr.
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