I was alone all the afternoon, and copied out for the last time a
letter to my husband, on which I had lately expended many hours. I
felt strong and sure of myself; it was not cowardice that led me to
write to him instead of saying to his face all that I had to say.
But there was no telling in what mood I should find him, were I to
speak. He might refuse to listen; he might move me to momentary
indecision by manner, look, or words; I preferred to write it all
down clearly, to make sure that what I had to say would not run the
risk of being left unsaid through the interposition of unforeseen
and incalculable emotions.
At the approach of supper-time, I dressed and went into the
drawing-room. We were expecting Constance and Mrs. Rayner, the
vicar, and Uncle George. My old dears and I had half an hour to
ourselves before any of them came. Gabriel was very late; our last
guest had already arrived when I heard him come in and rush up to
our room.
When he came down, he was pale in the extreme, and his eyes danced
in his head. I went up to him and drew him aside, towards the
window.
"Well?" said I, softly, "what's the matter with him?"
He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.
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