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my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that had been dear
to me. They are vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to soothe or
comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered during
these long months. I have read of mourners in ancient days, who clothed
themselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their bread
mingled with ashes, and took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops,
reproaching heaven and earth aloud with their misfortunes. Why this is the
very luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day contriving new
extravagances, revelling in the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the
appurtenances of despair. Alas! I must for ever conceal the wretchedness
that consumes me. I must weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my
grief from vulgar eyes, smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful
smiles--even in solitude I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become
insane and rave."
The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit to return
to the circle we had left--so I persuaded her to let me drive her through
the park; and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the tale of her
unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it would lighten the burthen,
and certain that, if there were a remedy, it should be found and secured to
her.
Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary, and she
had been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to any regular
train. Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too bitterly to heart,
that which many would esteem an imaginary evil; but this was no subject for
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