This woman had
said so to herself very often during the last two years, and had
certainly been sincere. What was there in store for her? She was
banished from the society of all those she liked. She bore a name
that was hateful to her. She loved a man whom she could never see.
She was troubled about money. Nothing in life had any taste for her.
All the joys of the world were over,--and had been lost by her own
fault. Then Phineas Finn had come to her at Dresden, and now her
husband was dead!
Could it be that she was entitled to hope that the sun might rise
again for her once more and another day be reopened for her with a
gorgeous morning? She was now rich and still young,--or young enough.
She was two and thirty, and had known many women,--women still
honoured with the name of girls,--who had commenced the world
successfully at that age. And this man had loved her once. He had
told her so, and had afterwards kissed her when informed of her own
engagement. How well she remembered it all. He, too, had gone through
vicissitudes in life, had married and retired out of the world,
had returned to it, and had gone through fire and water.
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