Her faculties, her energy,
her passion, were all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark
mist had suddenly encompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme
degree the art of eliciting any weakness. On her way back to her
room she found the Countess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a
little parlour in which a small collection of heterogeneous books
had been arranged. The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she
appeared to have been glancing down a page which failed to strike
her as interesting. At the sound of Isabel's step she raised her head.
"Ah my dear," she said, "you, who are so literary, do tell me some
amusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreariness-! Do you think
this would do me any good?"
Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but
without reading or understanding it. "I'm afraid I can't advise you.
I've had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying."
The Countess threw down her book. "Ah, he was so simpatico. I'm
awfully sorry for you."
"You would be sorrier still if you knew."
"What is there to know? You look very badly," the Countess added.
"You must have been with Osmond.
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