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Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn, 1810-1865

"Mary Barton"

Then she sought for some water to bathe her throbbing
temples, and quench her feverish thirst. There was none in the
house, so she took the jug and went out to the pump at the other end
of the court, whose echoes resounded her light footsteps in the
quiet stillness of the night. The hard, square outlines of the
houses cut sharply against the cold bright sky, from which myriads
of stars were shining down in eternal repose. There was little
sympathy in the outward scene, with the internal trouble. All was
so still, so motionless, so hard! Very different to this lovely
night in the country in which I am now writing, where the distant
horizon is soft and undulating in the moonlight, and the nearer
trees sway gently to and fro in the night-wind with something of
almost human motion; and the rustling air makes music among their
branches, as if speaking soothingly to the weary ones who lie awake
in heaviness of heart. The sights and sounds of such a night lull
pain and grief to rest.
But Mary re-entered her home after she had filled her pitcher, with
a still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still clearer conviction of
how much rested upon her unassisted and friendless self, alone with
her terrible knowledge, in the hard, cold, populous world.


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