(And possibly there were other pew-fuls
equally deceptive.)
Sophia alone, in the corner next to the wall, with her beautiful
stern face pressed convulsively against her hands, was truly busy
with immortal things. Turbulent heart, the violence of her
spiritual life had made her older! Never was a passionate, proud
girl in a harder case than Sophia! In the splendour of her remorse
for a fatal forgetfulness, she had renounced that which she loved
and thrown herself into that which she loathed. It was her nature
so to do. She had done it haughtily, and not with kindness, but
she had done it with the whole force of her will. Constance had
been compelled to yield up to her the millinery department, for
Sophia's fingers had a gift of manipulating ribbons and feathers
that was beyond Constance. Sophia had accomplished miracles in the
millinery. Yes, and she would be utterly polite to customers; but
afterwards, when the customers were gone, let mothers, sisters,
and Mr. Poveys beware of her fiery darts!
But why, when nearly three months had elapsed after her father's
death, had she spent more and more time in the shop, secretly
aflame with expectancy? Why, when one day a strange traveller
entered the shop and announced himself the new representative of
Birkinshaws--why had her very soul died away within her and an
awful sickness seized her? She knew then that she had been her own
deceiver.
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