On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. "He hears me not! he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence; "something tells me I shall never see him again!" When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of grief. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture.
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