Woodstock was beginning to age. Outwardly he was well-preserved--
few men of his years anything like so well. But let the inner man
become visible during a fit of brooding, and his features made
evident the progress of years. His present phase of countenance was
a recent development; the relaxed lines brought to light a human
kindliness not easily discoverable in the set expression of
wide-awake hours. At present there was even tenderness in his eyes,
and something of sad recollection. His strong mouth twitched a
little at times, and his brows contracted, as if in self-reproach.
When he returned to himself, it was with a sigh. He sat for about an
hour; then the woman presented herself again, and told him that Miss
Starr had been persuaded to lie down. It seemed likely she might
sleep.
"Very well," said Mr. Woodstock, rising. "I'll go to the office.
Send some one round when she's stirring, will you?"
Ida, to get rid of her troublesome though well-meaning attendant,
had promised to lie down, but she had no need of sleep. Alone, she
still kept her chair by the fire, sitting like one worn out with
fatigue, her hands upon her lap, her head drooping, her eyes fixed
on vacancy.
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