I wouldn’t recommend doing anything. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less.
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