A
glowing crimson blazed upon her cheeks, and her large, haughty eyes
darted wild flashes of wrath.
She was disdained--she, Lady Holland, was forced to endure the
disgrace of being dismissed by her lover.
There, there, in that letter which she held in her hand, and which
burned her fingers like red-hot iron--there it stood in black and
white, that he would see her no more; that he renounced her love;
that he released her.
Her whole frame shook as she thought of this. It was not the anguish
of a loving heart which made her tremble; it was the wounded pride
of the woman.
He had abandoned her. Her beauty, her youth no longer had the power
to enchain him--the man with white hairs and withered features.
He had written her that he was satiated and weary, not of her, but
only of love in general; that his heart had become old and withered
like his face: and that there was still in his breast no more room
for love, but only for ambition.
Was not that a revolting, an unheard-of outrage--to abandon the
finest woman in England for the sake of empty, cold, stern ambition?
She opened the letter once more. Once more she read that place. Then
grinding her teeth with tears of anger in her eyes: "He shall pay me
for this! I will take vengeance for this insult!" She thrust the
letter into her bosom, and touched the silver bell.
"Have my carriage brought round!" was her order to the servant who
entered; and he withdrew in silence.
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