No, she did not love him any more, she was quite sure of that. She
watched his tall, elegant figure---he was as beautiful as Lucifer--
moving about the rooms, and it seemed that his very face had grown
ugly to her sight. She shivered to think that once--thank God, only
once!--his lips had pressed hers; that she had let him say to her fond
words, and write to her fond letters, and had even written back to him
others, which, if not exactly love-letters, were of the sort that no girl
could write except to a man in whom she wholly believed--in his
goodness and in his love for herself.
What had become of those letters she had no idea; what was in them
she hardly remembered; but the thought of them made her grow pale
and terrible. In an agony of shame, as if all the world were pointing at
her--at Dr. Grey's wife--she hid herself in a corner, behind the
voluminous presence of Miss Gascoigne, and sat waiting, counting
minutes like hours till her husband should appear.
He came at last, his kind face all beaming.
"Christian I have been having a long talk with--But you are very tired."
His eye caught--she knew it would at once--the change in her face, "My
darling," he whispered, "would you not like to go home!"
"Oh yes, home! Take me home!" Christian replied almost with a sob.
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