. . It was a sentimental sort of place
and light and hour. . . .
And suddenly Nancy found that she was crying. She was crying
quietly; she went on to cry with long convulsive sobs. It seemed to
her that everything gay, everything charming, all light, all
sweetness, had gone out of life. Unhappiness; unhappiness;
unhappiness was all around her. She seemed to know no happy
being and she herself was agonizing. . . .
She remembered that Edward's eyes were hopeless; she was
certain that he was drinking too much; at times he sighed deeply.
He appeared as a man who was burning with inward flame; drying
up in the soul with thirst; withering up in the vitals. Then, the
torturing conviction came to her--the conviction that had visited
her again and again--that Edward must love some one other than
Leonora. With her little, pedagogic sectarianism she remembered
that Catholics do not do this thing. But Edward was a Protestant.
Then Edward loved somebody. . . .
And, after that thought, her eyes grew hopeless; she sighed as the
old St Bernard beside her did. At meals she would feel an
intolerable desire to drink a glass of wine, and then another and
then a third.
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