Dr. Vavasour was dozing in an arm-chair, Mrs. Vavasour sat a
the table stitching, Maria in the shade knitting cotton socks,
and Madelon was leaning back in her chair, the lamplight
falling on her brown hair and white dress, a piece of
embroidery between her fingers, but her hands lying in her
lap, and such sad thoughts in her poor little weary head. So
this was the end of it all? Monsieur Horace was going to be
married, and then live abroad--yes, she was certain he would
live abroad--who would stay in England if they could help it?--
and she would never, never see him again! The one thought
revolved in her brain with a sort of dull weariness, which
prevented her seizing more than half its meaning, but which
only required a touch to startle it into acutest pain. No one
spoke or moved, and this oppressive silence of a room full of
people seemed to perplex her as with a sense of unreality, and
was more distracting for the moment than would have been the
confusion of a dozen tongues around her.
Presently, however, Graham came in from the garden, and walked
straight up to her.
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