He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. He was no longer in military uniform, and it was evident from his suit of brown brocade that he had been disturbed while preparing for an evening engagement. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. She felt like a dried-up old woman. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked.
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