Her hand trembled as she filled the pages with burning words.
She panted for more than he had given her; this calm, half-brotherly
love of his was just now like a single drop of water to one dying of
thirst; she cried to him for a deeper draught of the joy of life.
The words came to her without need of thought; tears fell hot from
her eyes and blotted what she wrote.
The tears brought her relief; she was able to throw her writing
aside, and by degrees to resume that dull, vacant mood of habitual
suffering which at all events could be endured. From this, too,
there was at times a retreat possible with the help of a book. She
had no mind to sleep, and on looking round, she remembered that the
book she had been reading in the early part of the day was
downstairs. It was after midnight, and she seemed to have a
recollection of hearing the visitors leave the house a little while
ago; it would be safe to venture as far as the sitting-room below.
She began to descend the stairs quietly. There was still a light in
the hall, but the quietness of the house reassured her. On turning
an angle of the stairs, however, she saw that the door of the
drawing-room was open, and that just within stood two figures--her
mother and Mr.
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