At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. "Spring!—I never knew any.
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