But, for Phoebe, it was held by two presences.

Everything around her spoke of John.

Here was his familiar belongings--his clothes that she had mended--his books--his painting-things.

And over John's room--her husband's room--the woman in the picture held sway.
She slowly approached the drawing, while a sob mounted in her throat.
She was still in the grip of that violent half-hysterical impulse which had possessed her since the evening of Bella Morrison's visit.
Nights almost sleepless, arrangements made and carried out in a tumult of excitement, a sense of impending tragedy, accepted, and almost welcomed, as the end of long weeks of doubt and self-torment, which had become at last unbearable--into this fatal coil of actions and impressions, the young wife had been sinking deeper and deeper with each successive hour.

She had neither friend nor adviser.