Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. This was enough for the poor widow. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. ‘You could have fetched me home. As for the patient, his decision was immediate. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were.
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