Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. .
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