2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.
The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow, save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously perusing.
The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld.

I wondered if she thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a copy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.
"What do you read, Lady Crawford ?" said my cloak and hat, in tones that certainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.
"What do you say, Malcolm ?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show the ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.
"I asked what do you read ?" repeated Dorothy.
"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'" responded Lady Crawford.
"Have you read it?
It is a rare and interesting history." "Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book.

I have read it many times." There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought Dorothy into trouble.
"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like ?" asked Aunt Dorothy, perhaps for lack of anything else to say.

Here was trouble already for Malcolm No.

2.
"That is hard for me to say.