‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. " CHAPTER XV. S.
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