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140 while gems of immense value were laid carelessly among them. The dress of the preceding evening had been flung on a chair near, and on the floor was a bouquet of rare, but faded flowers, and a glittering fan; but the glitter of the fan was stained with red blood-spots. What now were the graceful vanities of the night? Nothing, or less than nothing! Wrapped in a white dressing-gown, which had been hastily thrown round her, her hair loosened from its confinement, but with some of the neglected jewels yet shining in it, lay Constance Norbourne. Life was fast ebbing away, and the physician had said that there was no hope. There she lay, white as the pillow on which she rested for the last time; a dull film had gathered over the eyes which yet dwelt lovingly on the friends beside her; and her fallen mouth, with the faint purple circle around it, indicated the near approach of death. Lady Marchmont, still in the gay costume of the preceding night, sat on the bed, and supported the head of her dying friend; while Norbourne knelt beside,