She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. ” Part 9 She was sitting brooding over her fire about ten o’clock that night when a sealed and registered envelope was brought up to her. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass.
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