agitated, notwithstanding her cheerful humour; and at length began repeatedly to speak of the Count, pitying him with a most charming kindness for his paleness and melancholy, and even asked me whether his heart was not the prey of some silent grief? She could have chosen neither a subject nor words that could have made my blood ferment with greater violence.
When the air grew more chilling, she told me she would go and fetch her shawl, and soon join me again. I offered to do it for her; however, she insisted upon going herself. I counted every minute; but she did not return. Having waited in vain above a quarter of an hour, I returned to the company. She sat by the Count, looking in his cards, or rather contemplating his beautiful countenance, which exhibited striking marks of melancholy, and received additional charms by the languid paleness his illness had left upon it. He never had appeared handsomer to me than that night. The speakinglanguage
