She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. At the precise period of this history, the Jacobite party was full of hope and confidence. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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