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THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.
quickly away from the window, and saw Ralph Touchett standing there, with his hands still in his pockets, but with a face absolutely void of its usual latent smile. She got up, and her movement and glance were a question.
"It's all over," said Ralph.
"Do you mean that my uncle———?" And Isabel stopped.
"My father died an hour ago."
"Ah, my poor Ralph!" the girl murmured, putting out her hand to him.
END OF VOL. I
