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CHAPTER VII.
I could scarcely sleep that night for eagerness and anticipation. Ever
since the afternoon when the vision of Miss Dudley appeared, to startle
me from my painting, in the little south parlor, she had been the
foremost figure in my brightest day-dreams, as often as, with little
Philip warm and slumberous on my knees, I could find time for
day-dreams. Accordingly, I had been more than wishing--longing--to see
her again; though I put off returning her visit, partly from real want
of time, partly from uncertainty about what was the proper etiquette for
me, and partly from the dread of dispelling some pleasant illusions, and
finding that the Miss Dudley of my reveries belonged to the realm of my
imagination rather than to that of my memory. I dreamed of her all that
night, when I was not lying awake to think of her; and when, in the
morning, I arose early to brush and brighten my somewhat faded black,
the keen autumn air, instead of chilling me, seemed but to whet and
sharpen my zest for my expedition.
Julia's toilet was not made when I heard the clatter of the recalcitrant
De Quincey backing the chaise out of his beloved, but little _be-lived_
in, stable. She sat up in bed, however, when I went in to kiss her, in
spite of Mrs.
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