“Hainault, Celeste’s friend. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Again silence. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. Get it off your soul.
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