When at length
she heard a knock at the door it filled her with fear; she started
to her feet and looked with unintelligent eyes at the woman who
again presented herself.
"Do you feel better, 'm?" the landlady asked. "Have you rested
yourself?"
"Yes, thank you."
The woman went away; then came another knock, and Mr. Woodstock
entered the room. He closed the door behind him, and drew near. She
had again started up, and did not move her eyes from his face.
"Have you any recollection of me?" Abraham asked, much embarrassed
in her presence, his voice failing to be as gentle as he wished
through his difficulty in commanding it.
Ida had recognised him at once. He had undergone no change since
that day when she saw him last in Milton Street, and at this moment
it was much easier for her to concentrate her thoughts upon bygone
things than to realise the present.
"You are Abraham Woodstock," she said very coldly, the resentment
associated with the thought of him being yet stronger than the dead
habit which had but now oppressed her.
"Yes, I am. And I am a friend of Osmond Waymark. I should like to
talk a little with you, if you'll let me."
The old man found it so hard to give expression to the feelings that
possessed him.
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