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 the drive home; and, what may perhaps appear strange, she named not her advenventure. "It is himself—it must be," "Who?" said Lady Mandeville. Confused at having betrayed her own thoughts,—"Young Linden," she cried, looking out of the carriage; and then feigned sleep, that she might think over again and again on that countenance, that voice, that being, she had one moment seen.