“Going before the Chancellor?” I said, startled for a moment.
“Only a matter of form, miss,” returned the young gentleman. “ Mr. Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would you partake of some refreshment”—there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a small table—“and look over the paper,” which the young gentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire and left me.
Everything was so strange—the stranger from its being night in the daytime, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and cold—that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing what they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby, dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to say for themselves. Then I went on, thinking,