More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. “It’s your birthday today, May Day. Ramage—about the forty pounds. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. I’ve had it, Sheila.
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