The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. She smiled. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. But you had better know the truth to start with. She thought her niece very hard and very self-possessed and self-confident. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now.
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