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Wieland: or, the Transformation, an American Tale by Charles Brockden Brown
page 63 of 311 (20%)
comprehended by myself.

It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisitive
as to the person and demeanour of our visitant. After a
moment's pause, I stepped to the door and looked after him.
Judge my surprize, when I beheld the self-same figure that had
appeared an half hour before upon the bank. My fancy had
conjured up a very different image. A form, and attitude, and
garb, were instantly created worthy to accompany such elocution;
but this person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of
this phantom. Strange as it may seem, I could not speedily
reconcile myself to this disappointment. Instead of returning
to my employment, I threw myself in a chair that was placed
opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of musing.

My attention was, in a few minutes, recalled by the stranger,
who returned with the empty cup in his hand. I had not thought
of the circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different
seat. He no sooner shewed himself, than a confused sense of
impropriety, added to the suddenness of the interview, for
which, not having foreseen it, I had made no preparation, threw
me into a state of the most painful embarrassment. He brought
with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon
me, than his face was as glowingly suffused as my own. He
placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and
retired.

It was some time before I could recover my wonted composure.
I had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. The
impression that it made was vivid and indelible. His cheeks
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