"I hear there has been a bad accident in Oxford Street," Lionel said to
the young lady. "Some scaffolding has fallen--a lot of people hurt. I'm
afraid there will be a sad tale to tell from the sea; even now, while
we are secure in this big building, thinking only of amusement, I
suppose there is many a ship laboring in the gale, or going headlong on
to the rocks. Have you far to get home?" he asked.
"Oh, I am going home with Miss Burgoyne," the young lady answered.
But here Miss Burgoyne herself appeared, coming forth in the full
splendor of Grace Mainwaring's bridal attire and with all her radiant
witcheries of make-up, and the poor lad sitting there, who had never
before been so near this vision of delight, seemed quite entranced by
its (strictly speaking) superhuman loveliness. He could not take his
eyes away from her. He did not think of joining in the conversation. He
watched her at the mirror; he watched her making tea; he watched her
munching a tiny piece of bread and butter (which was imprudent on her
part, after the care she had bestowed on her lips); and always he was
silent and spellbound. Miss Burgoyne, on the other hand, was talkative
enough.
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