However, Jacqueline
said nothing but:
"Very well, madame. And the number 32?"
"Arrange yourself as you can," said the mistress, curtly.
"It is well, madame. Good evening, madame, and a good night."
Jacqueline, alone in the hall, re-entered her box and set upon one
of those endless, mysterious tasks which occupied her when she was
not rushing to and fro or whistling up the tubes.
Sophia, scarcely troubling even to glance into Fossette's round
basket, undressed, put out the light, and got into bed. She felt
extremely and inexplicably gloomy. She did not wish to reflect;
she strongly wished not to reflect; but her mind insisted on
reflection--a monotonous, futile, and distressing reflection.
Povey! Povey! Could this be Constance's Povey, the unique Samuel
Povey? That is to say, not he, but his son, Constance's son. Had
Constance a grown-up son? Constance must be over fifty now,
perhaps a grandmother! Had she really married Samuel Povey?
Possibly she was dead. Certainly her mother must be dead, and Aunt
Harriet and Mr. Critchlow. If alive, her mother must be at least
eighty years of age.
The cumulative effect of merely remaining inactive when one ought
to be active, was terrible.
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