Miller, who floated in fine,
white, embroidered muslin, with a long scarlet sash, and a scarlet net
upon the back of her head, confining her dark hair in a heavy clump,
very low. She was a very romantic, graceful-looking person, slender
and pale and elegant; and I had a good deal of conversation with her.
She is one of Mr. Hawthorne's profound admirers. . . . She smiled
very brightly; but a look of unspeakable sadness alternated with her
smile that expressed great suffering of some kind. She spoke of
having been ill once, when her friends called her the White Lady of
Avenel; and that is just her picture now. Her dress made her fairness
so apparent,--the gossamer tissue, the bright scarlet, and raven hair
and dark eyes and lashes. The tones of her voice were very airy and
distant, so that I could scarcely catch her words; and this I have
observed in several English ladies. "Where could Zenobia have found
her ever-fresh, rich flower?" asked Mrs. Holland. It is singular to
observe how familiar and like a household word Mr. Hawthorne is to all
cultivated English people. People who have not heard of Thackeray
here, know Mr. Hawthorne. Is not that funny? We ladies had a very good
time together in the drawing-room. Coffee was served in exquisite
little china cups all flowers and gold. . . . Mr. Holland asked me
whether Mr. Hawthorne was mobbed in "the States," and said that if he
should go to London it would be hard work for him, for he would
inevitably be mobbed.
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