Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. “They make me want to shout,” said Mr. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. She cocked her head. “It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground.
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