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Updated: June 2, 2025
But in this great crisis in her life she could not write. She would sit for hours vainly striving to arouse her languid brain. It seemed to her that she had lost this gift also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her. Felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting, touched Mr.
But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford.
Except for Felicita's presence in the village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto himself; only eternal gloom and solitude. It was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way to Felicita's hotel.
He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple inscription, "Mrs. Sefton." "You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed, shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly. "I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers," she added, "published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May." "I never heard of it," he answered solemnly.
It would be a pleasure, I am sure, if I could do anything." Felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and trod the muddy pavement. A few illusions shrivelled up that wintry morning under that murky sky.
Phebe listened to them, and thought of the desolate, broken-hearted man without, who was listening too. The clear young voices of their children fell upon his ears as upon Felicita's; so near they were to one another, yet so far apart. She shivered and drew nearer to the fire. "I feel as cold as if I was a poor outcast in the streets," she said. "And I, too," responded Felicita; "but oh!
Without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household. Though Roland Sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him, Felicita's own tastes and habits were simple.
"Oh! sit down here and tell me all about it; all you can remember. I will tell it all again to Felix, and Hilda, and Phebe Marlowe; and oh! how glad, and how sorry they will be to listen!" There was no mention of Felicita's name, and Jean Merle felt a terrible dread come over him at this omission.
Phebe stepped softly forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate hand.
Now they recognized Phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. She bent down hurriedly to kiss Felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief. "I will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and Madame. Oh, what can I do to help you all? Mr.
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