And she gave a little laugh.

Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked,
mortified by it. "My dear young lady," he protested, "she knows no one.
It's her wretched health."

The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still.
"You needn't be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she want
to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet
of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake.
There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance
were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon
the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh.
"Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered
whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost
wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it
becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her.
He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable
for consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant,
quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit
that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn't
mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this
perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady,
resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone.
"Well, here's Mother! I guess she hasn't got Randolph to go to bed."
The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct
in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement.
Suddenly it seemed to pause.

"Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this