The beauty of her form would have impressed anyone who approached her, the grace of her bent head; but the countenance was no longer that of Clara Hewett; none must now look at her, unless to pity.
Feeling herself thus utterly changed, she could not speak in her former natural voice; her utterance was oppressed, unmusical, monotonous.
When her father had taken a place near her she asked him, 'Have you got that piece of newspaper still ?' He had, and at her wish produced it.

Clara held it in the light of the fire, and regarded the pencilled words closely.

Then she inquired if he wished to keep it, and on his answering in the negative threw it to be burnt.

Hewett took her hand, and for a while they kept silence.
'Do you live comfortably here, father ?' she said presently.
'We do, Clara.

It's a bit high up, but that don't matter much.' 'You've got new furniture.' 'Yes, some new things.