She began to be afraid of herself.
With a restless hand, as though she caught hold of anything that might distract her from the picture, she began to rummage among the papers on the table.

Suddenly her attention pounced upon them; she bent her head, took up some and carried them to the lamp.

Five or six large envelopes, bearing a crest and monogram, addressed in a clear hand, and containing each a long letter--she found a packet, of these, tied round with string.

Throwing off her hat and veil, she sat down under the lamp, and, without an instant's demur, began to read.
First, indeed, she turned to the signature--'Eugenie de Pastourelles.' Why, pray, should Madame de Pastourelles write these long letters to another woman's husband?
The hands which held them shook with anger and misery.

These pages filled with discussion of art and books, which had seemed to the woman of European culture, and French associations, so natural to write, which had been written as the harmless and kindly occupation of an idle hour, with the shades of Madame de Sevigne and Madame du Deffand standing by, were messengers of terror and despair to this ignorant and yet sentimental Westmoreland girl.