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. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled.
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