With
knitted brows she bent over the manuscript of the "Diagnosis of
Sympathy," and having deciphered a line or two, she wrote the words in a
fair hand on a broad sheet before her. Then she returned to the study of
the doctor's caligraphy, and copied a little more of it, but the
proportion of the time she gave to the deciphering of the original
manuscript to that occupied in writing the words in her own hand was
about as ten is to one. An hour had elapsed since she had begun to write
on the page, which she had not yet filled.
Miss Cicely Drane was a small person, nearing her twenty-second year. She
had handsome gray eyes, tastefully arranged brown hair, and a vivacious
and pleasing face. Her hands were small, her feet were small, and she did
not look as if she weighed a hundred pounds, although, in fact, her
weight was considerably more than that. Her dress was a simple one, on
which a great deal of thought had been employed to make it becoming.
For a longer time than usual she now bent over the doctor's manuscript,
endeavoring to resolve a portion of it into comprehensible words.
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