With a great effort of the will she tried to hide from these agonies of the imagination, and again she would approach those happy confines of sleep, which are the only refuge to the lacerated heart; and then the weapon of time on the mantelpiece would clash on the shield of the past, and she was wide awake again.

At last, in desperation, she got out of bed, hurried to the fireplace, caught the little sharp-tongued recorder in a nervous grasp, and stopped it.
As she was about to get into bed again, she saw a pile of letters lying on the table near her pillow.

In her agitation she had not noticed them, and the devoted Heaver had not drawn her attention to them.
Now, however, with a strange premonition, she quickly glanced at the envelopes.

The last one of all was less aristocratic-looking than the others; the paper of the envelope was of the poorest, and it had a foreign look.

She caught it up with an exclamation.