Perhaps you will explain the state of panic into which I seem to have thrown you. The Night-Cellar. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. This intelligence, which she instantly communicated to the carpenter, drove him almost frantic. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it.
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