What about your luggage?” “I could get a few of my things, at any rate,” she said. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. They don’t now. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. “You will not even answer my letters. "Adieu, my worthy uncle. Prudence.
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