She shuddered. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit. ” Courtlaw laughed hardly. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. But, this sad affair disposed of, I will not rest till I have avenged my murdered parents. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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