"You must be mistaken, Decima. She sent a refusal."
"I fancy that she did not send a refusal. And I feel sure she is
thinking of going. You will not judge that I am unwarrantably
interfering," Decima added in a tone of deprecation. "I would not do
such a thing. But I thought it was right to apprise you of this. She is
not well enough to go out."
With a pressure of the hand on his sister's shoulder, and a few muttered
words of dismay, which she did not catch, Lionel sought his wife. No
need of questioning, to confirm the truth of what Decima had said.
Sibylla was figuring off before the glass, after the manner of her
girlish days, with a wreath of white flowers on her head. It was her
own sitting-room, the pretty room of the blue and white panels; and the
tables and chairs were laden with other wreaths, with various head
ornaments. She was trying their different effects, when, on turning
round her head as the door opened, she saw it was her husband. His
presence did not appear to discompose her, and she continued to place
the wreath to her satisfaction, pulling it here and there with her thin
and trembling hands.
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