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III. Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning

           Ihaveothercares.”

           “’Tistoomuch—butImustspareyou.”

           “Poorcharity.”

           “Bymywretchedsoulyoustingme,Eustacia!Icankeepitup,andhotlytoo.Now,then,madam,tellmehisname!”

           “Never,Iamresolved.”

           “Howoftendoeshewritetoyou?Wheredoesheputhisletters—whendoeshemeetyou?Ah,hisletters!Doyoutellmehisname?”

           “Idonot.”

           “ThenI’llfinditmyself.”Hiseyeshadfallenuponasmalldeskthatstoodnear,onwhichshewasaccustomedtowriteherletters.Hewenttoit.Itwaslocked.

           “Unlockthis!”

           “Youhavenorighttosayit.That’smine.”

           Withoutanotherwordheseizedthedeskanddashedittothefloor.Thehingeburstopen,andanumberofletterstumbledout.

           “Stay!”saidEustacia,steppingbeforehimwithmoreexcitementthanshehadhithertoshown.

           “Come,come!standaway!Imustseethem.”

           Shelookedatthelettersastheylay,checkedherfeelingandmovedindifferentlyaside;whenhegatheredthemup,andexaminedthem.

           Bynostretchofmeaningcouldanybutaharmlessconstructionbeplaceduponasingleoneofthelettersthemselves.Thesolitaryexceptionwasanemptyenvelopedirectedtoher,andthehandwritingwasWildeve’s.Yeobrighthelditup.Eustaciawasdoggedlysilent.

           “Canyouread,madam?Lookatthisenvelope.Doubtlessweshallfindmoresoon,andwhatwasinsidethem.Ishallnodoubtbegratifiedbylearningingoodtimewhatawell-finishedandfull-blownadeptinacertaintrademyladyis.”

           “Doyousayittome—doyou?”shegasped.

           Hesearchedfurther,butfoundnothingmore.

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