Bressant put his hand on her shoulder, and drew her forward a step or
two, so that the white moonlight fell upon her.
"Cornelia Valeyon is her name," said he, and then, as she remained
rigid, he bent forward, with a whispered laugh, and kissed her on the
face.
"There! now we belong to each other--a good match, aren't we? Quick!
now; run into the house, and get your things on. You must walk home with
me, and we'll arrange every thing. Go! I shall wait for you here."
She reentered the house, cold and dizzy, just as her partner arrived
with the coffee. She explained--what scarcely needed to be told--that
she felt faint: she must go up-stairs. In three minutes she had put her
satin-slippered feet into a pair of water-proof overshoes, pinned up
her trailing skirts, thrown on her long wadded mantle, with sleeves and
hood, and had got down-stairs again before "assistance" could arrive.
All the time, there was a burning and tingling where his lips had been,
but she would not put up her hand to touch the spot, and relieve the
sensation. It was, in a manner, sacred to her; albeit the sanctity was
largely mingled with bewilderment, remorse, and fear. When she came out,
Bressant was standing where she had left him, tossing a couple of
snow-balls from one hand to another.
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