It had been the same when she visited
him in the prison;--the same again when he came to her after his
acquittal. She had been frank enough to him, but he would not even
pretend that he loved her. His gratitude, his friendship, his
services, were all hers. In every respect he had behaved well to her.
All his troubles had come upon him because he would not desert her
cause,--but he would never again say he loved her.
She gazed at herself in the glass, putting aside for the moment the
hideous widow's cap which she now wore, and told herself that it
was natural that it should be so. Though she was young in years
her features were hard and worn with care. She had never thought
herself to be a beauty, though she had been conscious of a certain
aristocratic grace of manner which might stand in the place of
beauty. As she examined herself she found that that was not all
gone;--but she now lacked that roundness of youth which had been hers
when first she knew Phineas Finn. She sat opposite the mirror, and
pored over her own features with an almost skilful scrutiny, and told
herself at last aloud that she had become an old woman.
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