"BROADSTONE."
He handed it to his mother, but Lady Lucy scarcely took in the sense of
it. When he left her to write his answer, she sat on in the July sun
which had now reached the chairs, mechanically drawing her large country
hat forward to shield her from its glare--a forlorn figure, with staring
absent eyes; every detail of her sharp slenderness, her blanched and
quivering face, the elegance of her black dress, the diamond fastening
the black lace hat-strings tied under her pointed chin--set in the full
and searching illumination of mid-day. It showed her an old
woman--left alone.
Her whole being rebelled against what had happened to her. Life without
John's letters, John's homage, John's sympathy--how was it to be
endured? Disguises that shrouded her habitual feelings and instincts
even from herself dropped away. That Oliver was left to her did not make
up to her in the least for John's death.
The smart that held her in its grip was a new experience. She had never
felt it at the death of the imperious husband, to whom she had been,
nevertheless, decorously attached. Her thoughts clung to those last
broken words under her hand, trying to wring from them something that
might content and comfort her remorse:
"DEAR LUCY,--I feel ill--it may be nothing--Chide and you may
read this letter.
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