Mercy's handwriting was free and bold, but illegible, unless she made a special effort to write with care; and she never made that effort in writing to Stephen.

How many times he had said to her: "Never mind how you write to me, dear.

I read your sentences by another sense than the sense of sight." This formally and neatly written, superscription smote him, as a formal bow and a chilling glance from Mercy would, if he had passed her on the street.
He carried the letter home unopened.

All through the evening it lay like a leaden weight in his bosom, as he sat by his mother's side.

He dared not read it until he was sure of being able to be alone for hours.