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day, Emilie and Marianne van Naghel were hard at work in their boudoir. They shared a sitting-room between them; Louise, the eldest sister, had one to herself. Emilie was taking down water-colours from the wall:

“The room was so bright and cheerful!” she said, softly, and put the drawings together.

Marianne suddenly burst into sobs. The room was all topsy-turvy, because Emilie was collecting her belongings, and the wall-paper now showed in fresh, unfaded rectangular patches.

“What on earth do you want to marry that horrid man for!” cried Marianne, sobbing. “We were so happy, the two of us; we were always together. With you married, I shall have no one; and I hate the idea of arranging my room all over again.”

Emilie seemed to be staring blankly into a blank future:

“Oh, come, Marianne: I shall still be at the Hague!”

“No, I’ve lost you!” sobbed Marianne, passionately. “What did you see in that man, what did you see in him?” She embraced her sister violently and insisted. “Tell me, tell me: what did you see in that man?”

“In Eduard? I love him.”