There was a wife, of course, a woman two years older than Arthur
Breen--the relict of a Captain Barker, an army officer--who had
spent her early life in moving from one army post to another until
she had settled down in Washington, where Breen had married her,
and where the Scribe first met her. But this sharer of the
fortunes of Breen preferred her breakfast in bed, New York life
having proved even more wearing than military upheavals. And there
was also a daughter, Miss Corinne Barker, Captain and Mrs.
Barker's only offspring, who had known nothing of army posts,
except as a child, but who had known everything of Washington life
from the time she was twelve until she was fifteen, and she was
now twenty; but that young woman, I regret to say, also
breakfasted in bed, where her maid had special instructions not to
disturb her until my lady's jewelled fingers touched a button
within reach of her dainty hand; whereupon another instalment of
buttered rolls and coffee would be served with such accessories of
linen, porcelain and silver as befitted the appetite and station
of one so beautiful and so accomplished.
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