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Updated: July 25, 2025
The young duchess, Miss Hedworth's sister, was then travelling in Italy, whence she did not return for more than a year; and we may add, though Mrs. Dutton was unable to make the explanation, that her inquiries after the fate of a beloved sister, were met by a simple statement that she had died suddenly, on a visit to a watering-place, whither she had gone with a female friend for her health.
At least, for the moment, she could write a friendly note to this man, convey tactful sympathy, little good as it would do him. The letter must be answered. She heard a step on the gravel beneath her open window. She sprang to her feet, the blood rushing to her hair. She ran to the window and leaned out, smiling and trembling. Hedworth's eyes flashed upward to hers.
"I never saw him again that is, alone." Hedworth's face and tone changed suddenly. Both softened. "Why not?" She raised her head from the back of the sofa and lifted her chin defiantly. "I did not dare if you will know. Carnath came along shortly after, and I took him as soon as he offered himself. Why do you look so pleased?
If Hedworth left her, died, she might regret him, long to have him back; but the ghost of that abandon of grief, that racking of every sense, that groping in an abyss while a voiceless something within her raved and shrieked, resolved itself into a finger of fire, which wrote Hedworth's inferior position. "What shall I do? What shall I do?" She dipped the pen into the ink and put it to the paper.
Nevertheless, when she conjured his image, the shadowy figure of the other man stood behind, looking over Hedworth's shoulder, with the half-cynical smile which had only left his mouth when he had told her, with white face whose muscles were free of his will for the moment, that he loved her. "Is it the old love that is demanding its rights, not the man?" she thought.
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