is dull. You will find in them a love-story not made up,，
For some time the crow-quill had been cut ready for use; for some time the paper with its coloured vignette had been waiting by the side of the amber writing-case; yet Edmee paid no attention to them and made no attempt to use them. The letter lay open in her lap; her feet were on the fire-dogs, her elbows on the arm of her chair in her favourite attitude of meditation. She was completely absorbed. I spoke to her softly; she did not hear me. I thought that she had forgotten the letter and had fallen asleep. After a quarter of an hour the servant came back and said that the messenger wished to know if there was any answer.
"Certainly," she replied; "ask him to wait."
She read the letter again with the closest attention, and began to write slowly; then she threw her reply into the fire, pushed away the arm-chair with her foot, walked round the room a few times, and suddenly stopped in front of me and looked at me in a cold, hard manner.
"Edmee," I cried, springing to me feet, "what is the matter, and how does that letter which is worrying you so much concern myself?"
"What is that to you?" she replied.
"What is that to me?" I cried. "And what is the air I breathe to me? and what is the blood that flows in my veins? Ask me that, if you like, but do not ask how one of your words or one of your glances can concern me; for you know very well that my life depends on them."
"Do not talk nonsense now, Bernard," she answered, returning to her arm-chair in a distracted manner. "There is a time for everything."
"Edmee, Edmee! do not play with the sleeping lion, do not stir up the fire which is smouldering in the ashes."
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