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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"

I have no
picture to paint, not even my own face;" and, finding her unmoved, I
undertook to do the requisite work myself.
The sashes were shut away below by inside shutters, which resisted all
my efforts to stir them. After a moment's inspection, I perceived that
they were secured by iron screws of great strength and size; not, in
short, meant to be moved or opened at all. Again I essayed to shake them
convulsively one after the other--as you may sometimes see a tiger, made
desperate by confinement, grapple with the inexorable bars of his cage,
though certain of failure and defeat.
Overpowered by a sudden dismay that took entire possession of me, I sank
into one of the deep _fauteuils_ that extended its arms very opportunely
to receive me, and sat mutely for a moment, while anguish unutterable,
and conjecture too wild to be hazarded in speech, were surging through
my brain.
"I am too weak, I suppose, to open these shutters," I said at last,
feebly. "Be good enough to do it for me, Mrs. Clayton, or cause it to be
done immediately."
Was it not strange that up to this very moment no suspicion had clouded
my horizon since I woke in that sumptuous room?
"I cannot transcend my orders by doing any thing of the kind," she said
quietly, yet resolutely, as she pursued her avocation, that of dusting
with a bunch of colored plumes the delicate ornaments of the _etagere_
carefully one by one.


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