Weaker than a Woman — page 169: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

160 = WEAKER THAN A WOMAN. “T have not heard so. Violet, my dear, you have every blessing the world can give; do not think about him. And, if you will take my advice, you will not talk about him— Sir Owen might not like it.” “T shall be careful, mamma—I shall not speak of him; but I wanted to hear about him just once.” She said no more then, but as she sat in the familiar room she thought a great deal of him—it was impossible to help it. The quick eyes noted how completely every trace of him had been removed; the books that he had given her, the pictures, were all gone. “They need not have banished everything,” she said to herself. Presently her father awoke; he was delighted beyond measure to see her looking so well and so beautiful. Later on Sir Owen came, and they spent a pleasant hour together. But there was a dreamy look on the lovely face, a softened light in the clear eyes; she could not help think- ing of the past bright, girlish life that had been so simply happy. Felix had been part of that hfe, and she could not help remembering him when she thought of it. She enjoyed herself, she laughed and talked, she told gay anecdotes of her triumphs in Paris, but, as she quitted the house, she carefully avoided going near the bare llac bushes, or lingering for a moment at the garden gate. As — she drove home she said to herself : “T do not think I shall go to the Limes very often. meek all, the pain is as great as the pleasure.” But she did not own what the pain was. CHAPTER XXIX. SIR OWEN’S MOODS. During the next few days Lady Chevenix was occupied in arranging all the beautiful ornaments, pictures, and statues she had brought with her from abroad. She had her own apartments to arrange; she had to superintend the putting away of the superb garments that she had pur- — chased in Paris, of all the things she had brought with her from her home. Among the treasures of her girlhood was a small rosewood writing-desk. Onit she had written all her tove-letters; in it she kept every love-letter she had re- ceived, and she rememebred now that she had not de- — stroyed them before her marriage, and that she ought to have done so. She was alone in the sumptuous room thas comicbooks.com