He could hardly recall what special
piece of work he had been engaged upon last night. His thoughts
were such as if actual blindness had really fallen upon him.
At half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at
the foot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away
towards the kitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he
found breakfast ready as usual, and seated himself at the table.
Two letters waited for him there; he opened them.
When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was
astonished by a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband,
excited, as it appeared, by something he was reading.
'Is Marian up?' he asked, turning to her.
'Yes.'
'She is not coming to breakfast?'
'No.'
'Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it.'
Mrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was
bidden enter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The
girl looked as if she had been up all night; her eyes bore the
traces of much weeping.
'He has come back, dear,' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of
apprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter.
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