"a terrible thing, miriam," said hilda, growing paler than before.
"do you see it written in my face, or painted in my eyes?" inquired miriam, her trouble seeking relief in a half-frenzied raillery."i would fain know how it is that providence, or fate, brings eye-witnesses to watch us, when we fancy ourselves acting in the remotest privacy.did all rome see it, then? or, at least, our merry company of artists? or is it some blood-stain on me, or death-scent in my garments? they say that monstrous deformities sprout out of fiends, who once were lovely angels.
do you perceive such in me already? tell me, by our past friendship, hilda, all you know."thus adjured, and frightened by the wild emotion which miriam could not suppress, hilda strove to tell what she had witnessed.