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126 faces been seen in her box at the opera, it might have attracted that attention she was feverishly covetous of engrossing. Time and prosperity had hardened Lady Penrhyn's into an intensely selfish nature—it had never been softened by affection, or purified by sorrow—her course of worldly prosperity had been unbroken, and she had neither the experience of suffering, nor the native sympathy of a kindly temper, which makes us enter into the feelings of others. She spoke of misfortunes as if they had been faults; and poverty, sickness, or disappointment, appeared to her quite inexcusable. She could not endure that five uninformed girls should engross so handsome and so distinguished looking a man as Mr. Glentworth, though she had quite penetration enough to perceive that his kindness was that of a parent, and equally extended to all. Still, it was not to be borne, and she well knew from what quiver to select her arrow. "Pray," said she, during her next morning visit in Welbeck Street, "when, and on which of your daughter's marriage with Mr. Glentworth, am I to congratulate you? What a fortunate connexion!" Lady Anne, with whom long knowledge of the world often supplied the place of sense, was too guarded to admit her disappointment, and calmly replied, "Mr. Glentworth is only a very old friend of the family." "Not so very old," said Lady Penrhyn, with a