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Rh none, but a wooden shutter, which kept creaking backwards and forwards—the floor, discoloured with dirt—the wretched pallet—all struck her with a sick shudder of loathing and misery. Drawing her cloak round her, she opened the shutter, and, seating herself on a little wooden stool, the only seat in the room, she endeavoured to trace some plan of action. One hope she dwelt upon with mingled timidity and trust: "If Lorraine is in Naples, I have one friend at least." The high blood of her race mounted to the very temples at the thought of dependence even on her lover. Gratitude has nothing to do with love, more especially the imaginative love of a woman. She who would fain give the starry worlds to the object of her affection—it is a fine and beautiful pride which makes her shrink from aught of benefit from him. Once or twice her head dropped in momentary forgetfulness on her arm, but it was only to start again into full and bitter recollection. Towards morning she slept, completely overcome by fatigue. A shrill voice awakened her—it was that of her hostess, politely informing her, "Indeed they could not wait breakfast." Hastily Beatrice descended, drawing her veil close round her head to conceal her hair, whose