"It must feel like that to die, I suppose," thought she. "If I were
Sophie, now, that snow would be the death of me in two days: as it is, I
shall only have a cold in the head to-morrow. There seems to be no
reason in these things."
A dark figure turned the farther corner of the house, and came
ploughing through the snow immediately under the eaves, dragging one
hand along the clapboards as it came. The crunching of the snow caught
Cornelia's ears, and she turned and recognized the figure in half a
breath. The great height, the massive breadth, the easy, springing
tread--it was Bressant from head to foot. He was buttoned up in a short
pea-jacket, and there was a round fur cap on his head. As Cornelia
turned upon him, he stopped a moment, standing quite motionless, with
the fingers of one hand resting on the side of the house. Then he came
close up to her and grasped her wrist with his gloved hand.
"Where is Sophie?" demanded he in his rapid, muffled voice.
"She's ill: she caught cold: she's at home," answered Cornelia, who, at
the first recognition, had felt a kind of twang through all her nerves,
and was now trying to control the effects of the shock. There was
something queer in Bressant's manner--in the way he looked at her.
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