She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the serene glory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast long shadows.
But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw herself on a chair, not heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays: if there were discomfort in that, how could she tell that it was not part of her inward misery?
She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:—
“What have I done—what am I—that he should treat me so? He never knows what is in my mind—he never cares. What is the use of anything I do? He wishes he had never married me.”
She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like one who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance