As she sat waiting in the library, she could do nothing but live through again all the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her memories. They all owed their significance to her marriage and its troubles⁠—but no; there were two occasions in which the image of Lydgate had come painfully in connection with his wife and someone else. The pain had been allayed for Dorothea, but it had left in her an awakened conjecture as to what Lydgate’s marriage might be to him, a susceptibility to the slightest hint about Mrs. Lydgate. These thoughts were like a drama to her, and made her eyes bright, and gave an attitude of suspense to her whole frame, though she was only looking out from the brown library on to the turf and the bright green buds which stood in relief against the dark evergreens.