"She is alive!" cried Sibyl. "She's alive, and you have seen her!
You needn't deny it! You've seen her to-day!" Lemuel rose in clumsy
indignation. "I don't know as anybody's got any right to say what
I've done, or haven't done."
"O Lemuel!" cried Sibyl. "Do you think anyone in this house would
intrude in your affairs? But if you need a friend--a sister----"
"I don't need any sister. I want you should let me alone."
At these words, so little appreciative of her condescension, her
romantic beneficence, her unselfish interest, Sibyl suddenly
rebounded to her former level, which she was sensible was far above
that of this unworthy object of her kindness. She rose from her
chair, and pursued--
"If you need a friend--a sister--I'm sure that you can safely
confide in--the cook." She looked at him a moment, and broke into a
malicious laugh very unlike that of a social reformer, which rang
shriller at the bovine fury which mounted to Lemuel's eyes. The
rattle of a night-latch made itself heard in the outer door. Sibyl's
voice began to break, as it rose: "I never expected to be treated in
my own aunt's house with such perfect ingratitude and impudence--
yes, impudence!--by one of her servants!"
She swept out of the room, and her aunt, who entered it, after
calling to her in vain, stood with Lemuel, and heard her mount the
stairs, sobbing, to her own room, and lock herself in.
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