On the expiration of the half-hour Noel Vanstone presented himself at
North Shingles, with the ardor of a lover burning inextinguishably
in his bosom, through the superincumbent mental fog of a thoroughly
bewildered man. To his inexpressible happiness, he found Magdalen alone
in the parlor. Never yet had she looked so beautiful in his eyes. The
rest and relief of her four days' absence from Aldborough had not failed
to produce their results; she had more than recovered her composure.
Vibrating perpetually from one violent extreme to another, she had now
passed from the passionate despair of five days since to a feverish
exaltation of spirits which defied all remorse and confronted all
consequences. Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks were bright with color; she
talked incessantly, with a forlorn mockery of the girlish gayety of
past days; she laughed with a deplorable persistency in laughing; she
imitated Mrs. Lecount's smooth voice, and Mrs. Lecount's insinuating
graces of manner with an overcharged resemblance to the original, which
was but the coarse reflection of the delicately-accurate mimicry of
former times. Noel Vanstone, who had never yet seen her as he saw
her now, was enchanted; his weak head whirled with an intoxication of
enjoyment; his wizen cheeks flushed as if they had caught the infection
from hers.
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