Chapter XIX

           ThelibrarylookedtranquilenoughasIenteredit,andtheSibylifSibylshewerewasseatedsnuglyenoughinaneasy-chairatthechimney-corner. Shehadonaredcloakandablackbonnet:orrather,abroad-brimmedgipsyhat,tieddownwithastripedhandkerchiefunderherchin. Anextinguishedcandlestoodonthetable; shewasbendingoverthefire,andseemedreadinginalittleblackbook,likeaprayer-book,bythelightoftheblaze:shemutteredthewordstoherself,asmostoldwomendo,whilesheread; shedidnotdesistimmediatelyonmyentrance:itappearedshewishedtofinishaparagraph. 

           Istoodontherugandwarmedmyhands,whichwererathercoldwithsittingatadistancefromthedrawing-roomfire. IfeltnowascomposedaseverIdidinmylife:therewasnothingindeedinthegipsy’sappearancetotroubleone‘scalm. Sheshutherbookandslowlylookedup;herhat-brimpartiallyshadedherface,yetIcouldsee,assheraisedit,thatitwasastrangeone. Itlookedallbrownandblack:elf-locksbristledoutfrombeneathawhitebandwhichpassedunderherchin,andcamehalfoverhercheeks,orratherjaws: hereyeconfrontedmeatonce,withaboldanddirectgaze. 

           "Well,andyouwantyourfortunetold?"shesaid,inavoiceasdecidedasherglance,asharshasherfeatures. 

           "Idon’tcareaboutit,mother;youmaypleaseyourself:butIoughttowarnyou,Ihavenofaith." 

           "It’slikeyourimpudencetosayso:Iexpecteditofyou;Ihearditinyourstepasyoucrossedthethreshold." 

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