She was beautiful still, with a large, splendid, full-blown beauty;
she filled a great rocking-chair with her superb bulk of
femininity, and swayed gently back and forth, her black silks
whispering and her black frills fluttering. Even the shock of
death (for her brother Edward lay dead in the house,) could not
disturb her outward serenity of demeanour. She was grieved over
the loss of her brother: he had been the youngest, and she had been
fond of him, but never had Emma Brigham lost sight of her own
importance amidst the waters of tribulation. She was always awake
to the consciousness of her own stability in the midst of
vicissitudes and the splendour of her permanent bearing.
But even her expression of masterly placidity changed before her
sister Caroline's announcement and her sister Rebecca Ann's gasp of
terror and distress in response.
"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor Edward
was so near his end," said she with an asperity which disturbed
slightly the roseate curves of her beautiful mouth.
"Of course he did not KNOW," murmured Rebecca Ann in a faint tone
strangely out of keeping with her appearance.
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