He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. Then came the javelin-men, walking four abreast, and lastly, a long line of constables, marching in the same order. It was too good to be true. She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. .
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