The lamp burned on the
dainty dressing table, where undisturbed lay jewels, perfume
bottles and other knickknacks. The cithern lay unmolested on the
couch, the rich curtains were drawn; everything was as he had
left it last - everything, but the pretty pink figure, with
drooping eyes, and pearls in the waves of her rich, black hair.
He looked round for the things she had worn, hoping she had taken
them off and retired to rest, but they were not to be seen; and
with a cold sinking of the heart, he went noiselessly across the
room, and to the bed. It was empty, and showed no trace of
having been otherwise since he and the pest-cart driver had borne
from it the apparently lifeless form of Leoline.
Yes, she was gone; and Sir Norman turned for a moment so sick
with utter dread, that he leaned against one of the tall carved
posts, and hated himself for having left her with a heartlessness
that his worst enemy could not have surpassed. Then aroused into
new and spasmodic energy by the exigency of the case, he seized
the lamp, and going out to the hall, made the house ring from
basement to attic with her name. No reply, but that hollow,
melancholy echo that sounds so lugubriously through empty houses,
was returned; and he jumped down stairs with an impetuous rush,
flinging back every door in the hall below with a crash, and
flying wildly from room to room.
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