She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. " "Except me, dear," insinuated Edgeworth Bess. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. ‘You can if you like. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments.
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