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           TheplaceinLincolnshirehasshutitsmanyeyesagain,andthehouseintownisawake.InLincolnshiretheDedlocksofthepastdozeintheirpicture-frames,andthelowwindmurmursthroughthelongdrawing-roomasiftheywerebreathingprettyregularly.IntowntheDedlocksofthepresentrattleintheirfire-eyedcarriagesthroughthedarknessofthenight,andtheDedlockMercuries,withashes(orhair-powder)ontheirheads,symptomaticoftheirgreathumility,lollawaythedrowsymorningsinthelittlewindowsofthehall.Thefashionableworldtremendousorb,nearlyfivemilesroundisinfullswing,andthesolarsystemworksrespectfullyatitsappointeddistances.Wherethethrongisthickest,wherethelightsarebrightest,whereallthesensesareministeredtowiththegreatestdelicacyandrefinement,LadyDedlockis.Fromtheshiningheightsshehasscaledandtaken,sheisneverabsent.Thoughthebeliefsheofoldreposedinherselfasoneabletoreservewhatsoevershewouldunderhermantleofprideisbeatendown,thoughshehasnoassurancethatwhatsheistothosearoundhershewillremainanotherday,itisnotinhernaturewhenenviouseyesarelookingontoyieldortodroop.Theysayofherthatshehaslatelygrownmorehandsomeandmorehaughty.Thedebilitatedcousinsaysofherthatshe’sbeautynoughtsetupshopofwomenbutratherlarmingkindremindingmanfactinconvenientwomanwhoWILLgetoutofbedandbawthstahlishmentShakespeare.Mr.Tulkinghornsaysnothing,looksnothing.

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