Every few minutes--oftener than any circumstances could have
warranted--she pulled a handsome gold watch out of her belt and
consulted it. She did not, to be sure, seem solely anxious to know the
hour; she bent down and examined the enameled face minutely; watched
the second-hand make its tiny circuit; pressed the smooth crystal
against her cheek; listened to the ceaseless beating of its little
golden heart. That golden heart, it seemed to her, was a connecting link
between Bressant's and her own. He had set it going, and it should be
her care that it never stopped; for at the hour in which it ran
down--such was Cornelia's superstitious idea--some lamentable misfortune
would surely come to pass.
The dinner-bell sounded; she put her watch back into her belt, bestowing
a loving little pat upon it, by way of temporary adieu. Then, feeling
pretty hungry, she ran down the broad, soft-carpeted stairs, with their
wide mahogany banisters--she would have sat upon the latter and slid
down if she had dared--and entering the dining-room, which was furnished
throughout with yellow oak, even to the polished floor, she took her
place by her hostess's side. She had already been presented to the
fashionable guests who sat around the ample table, and a good deal of
the awe which she had felt in anticipation, had begun to ooze away.
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