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Chapter 19

           Thelampintheparlorwindowthrewoddgoldenshadowsontothedarkvine-shroudedporch,andthemattedtangleofyellowclimbingrosesandhoneysucklemadeawallofmingledfragranceabouther.Thenightwasutterlystill.Noteventhecrackofariflehadsoundedsincesunsetandtheworldseemedfaraway.Scarlettrockedbackandforth,lonely,miserablesincereadingthenewsfromTara,wishingthatsomeone,anyone,evenMrs.Merriwether,werewithher.ButMrs.Merriwetherwasonnightdutyatthehospital,Mrs.MeadewasathomemakingafeastforPhil,whowasinfromthefrontlines,andMelaniewasasleep.Therewasnoteventhehopeofachancecaller.Visitorshadfallenofftonothingthislastweek,foreverymanwhocouldwalkwasintheriflepitsorchasingtheYankeesaboutthecountrysidenearJonesboro.

           Itwasnotoftenthatshewasalonelikethisandshedidnotlikeit.Whenshewasaloneshehadtothinkand,thesedays,thoughtswerenotsopleasant.Likeeveryoneelse,shehadfallenintothehabitofthinkingofthepast,thedead.

           TonightwhenAtlantawassoquiet,shecouldclosehereyesandimagineshewasbackintheruralstillnessofTaraandthatlifewasunchanged,unchanging.ButsheknewthatlifeintheCountywouldneverbethesameagain.ShethoughtofthefourTarletons,thered-hairedtwinsandTomandBoyd,andapassionatesadnesscaughtatherthroat.Why,eitherStuorBrentmighthavebeenherhusband.

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