Her poor blue eyes stared out between the black silk leaves and roses.

If she had been a dead woman and riding to her grave, and it had been possible for her to see as she was borne along the familiar road, she would have regarded everything in much the same fashion that she did now.

She looked at everything--every tree, every house and wall--with a pang of parting forever.

She felt as if she should never see them again in their old light.
The poor-house was three miles out of the village; the road lay past Richard Alger's house.

When they drew near it Sylvia bent her head low and averted her face; she shut her eyes behind the black roses.
She did not want to know when she passed the house.