But, while she
thus seemingly disclaimed all comparison between Mr. Falkland and
herself, she probably cherished a confused feeling as if some event,
that was yet in the womb of fate, might reconcile things apparently the
most incompatible. Fraught with these prepossessions, the civilities
that had once or twice occurred in the bustle of a public circle, the
restoring her fan which she had dropped, or the disembarrassing her of
an empty tea-cup, made her heart palpitate, and gave birth to the
wildest chimeras in her deluded imagination.
About this time an event happened, that helped to give a precise
determination to the fluctuations of Miss Melville's mind. One evening,
a short time after the death of Mr. Clare, Mr. Falkland had been at the
house of his deceased friend in his quality of executor, and, by some
accidents of little intrinsic importance, had been detained three or
four hours later than he expected. He did not set out upon his return
till two o'clock in the morning. At this time, in a situation so remote
from the metropolis, every thing is as silent as it would be in a
region wholly uninhabited.
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