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Chapter 35

           TomorrowshewouldthinkofRhett’sconductandhershameandtheywouldmakeherwritheagain.TomorrowshewouldwonderifshehadmadeanyimpressiononFrank’shurtandbewilderedheart.Butnottonight.Tonightshewasalivetoherfingertips,everysensealertwithhope,hereyessparkling.

           Shelookedfromthealcoveintothehugedrawingroomandwatchedthedancers,rememberinghowbeautifulthisroomhadbeenwhenfirstshecametoAtlantaduringthewar.Thenthehardwoodfloorshadshonelikeglass,andoverheadthechandelierwithitshundredsoftinyprismshadcaughtandreflectedeveryrayofthedozensofcandlesitbore,flingingthem,likegleamsfromdiamonds,flameandsapphireabouttheroom.Theoldportraitsonthewallshadbeendignifiedandgraciousandhadlookeddownuponguestswithanairofmellowedhospitality.Therosewoodsofashadbeensoftandinvitingandoneofthem,thelargest,hadstoodintheplaceofhonorinthissamealcovewhereshenowsat.IthadbeenScarlett’sfavoriteseatatparties.Fromthispointstretchedthepleasantvistaofdrawingroomanddiningroombeyond,theovalmahoganytablewhichseatedtwentyandthetwentyslim-leggedchairsdemurelyagainstthewalls,themassivesideboardandbuffetweightedwithheavysilver,withseven-branchedcandlesticks,goblets,cruets,decantersandshininglittleglasses.

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