Lydia. The book was a popular novel, and she felt interested in it.

"I am tired, Lydia: you don't consider how long I have been reading," cried Daisy, fretting inwardly: for the twilight hour was her lover's signal for approach, and she knew he must be already waiting for her.

"You have only been reading since dinner," debated Lydia: "not much more than an hour, I'm sure. Go on."

So Daisy was obliged to go on. She dared not display too much anxiety to get away, lest it might betray that she had some motive for wishing it. A secret makes us terribly self-conscious. But by-and-by it really became too dark to see even the large print of the fashionable novel of the day, and Lydia exhibited signs of weariness; and Mrs. St. Clare, who had been dozing in another arm-chair, woke up and said Lydia must not listen any longer. Daisy ran down to the yellow room, and sped swiftly through the open glass-doors.

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