She had made her father's life even more unhappy than it need have
been, and to be reminded of that only drove her more resolutely upon
the recklessness which would complete her ingratitude.
The afternoon wore away, the evening, a great part of the night. She
ate a few mouthfuls of bread, but could not exert herself to make
tea. It would be necessary to light a fire, and already the air of
the room was stifling.
After a night of sleeplessness, she could only lie on her bed
through the Sunday morning, wretched in a sense of abandonment. And
then began to assail her that last and subtlest of temptations, the
thought that already she had taken an irrevocable step, that an
endeavour to return would only be trouble spent in vain, that the
easy course was, in truth, the only one now open to her. Mrs. Tubbs
was busy circulating calumnies; that they were nothing more than
calumnies could never be proved; all who heard them would readily
enough believe. Why should she struggle uselessly to justify herself
in the eyes of people predisposed to condemn her? Fate was busy in
all that had happened during the last two days. Why had she quitted
her situation at a moment's notice? Why on this occasion rather than
fifty times previously? It was not her own doing; something impelled
her, and the same force--call it chance or destiny--would direct
the issue once more.
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