Chapter 8

When I reached home again after my interview with Mrs. Clemens, I was struck by the appearance

of a change in Laura.

The unvering gentleness and patience which long misfortune had tried so cruelly and had

never conquered yet seemed now to have suddenly failed her.

In sensible to all Mary Anne's attempts to soothe an amuser, she sat with her neglected,

drawing pushed away on the table.

Her eyes resolutely cast down.

Her fingers twining and untwining themselves restlessly in her lap.

Mary Anne rose when I came in, with a silent distress in her face.

Weighted for a moment to see if Laura would look up at my approach, whispered to me,

, try if you can rouse her and left the room.

I sat down in the vacant chair, gently unclasped the poor, worn, restless fingers, and took

both her hands in mine.

What are you thinking of Laura?

Tell me my darling, try and tell me what it is.

She struggled with herself and raised her eyes to mine.

I can't feel happy, she said.

I can't help thinking.

She stopped, bent forward a little, and laid her head on my shoulder, with a terrible

mute helplessness that struck me to the heart.

Try to tell me, I repeated gently.

...