Chapter 35

           Itwasthefirsttimethatagravehadopenedinmyroadoflife,andthegapitmadeinthesmoothgroundwaswonderful.Thefigureofmysisterinherchairbythekitchenfire,hauntedmenightandday.Thattheplacecouldpossiblybe,withouther,wassomethingmymindseemedunabletocompass;andwhereasshehadseldomorneverbeeninmythoughtsoflate,Ihadnowthestrangestideasthatshewascomingtowardsmeinthestreet,orthatshewouldpresentlyknockatthedoor.Inmyroomstoo,withwhichshehadneverbeenatallassociated,therewasatoncetheblanknessofdeathandaperpetualsuggestionofthesoundofhervoiceortheturnofherfaceorfigure,asifshewerestillaliveandhadbeenoftenthere.

           Whatevermyfortunesmighthavebeen,Icouldscarcelyhaverecalledmysisterwithmuchtenderness.ButIsupposethereisashockofregretwhichmayexistwithoutmuchtenderness.Underitsinfluence(andperhapstomakeupforthewantofthesofterfeeling)Iwasseizedwithaviolentindignationagainsttheassailantfromwhomshehadsufferedsomuch;andIfeltthatonsufficientproofIcouldhaverevengefullypursuedOrlick,oranyoneelse,tothelastextremity.

           HavingwrittentoJoe,toofferhimconsolation,andtoassurehimthatIwouldcometothefuneral,IpassedtheintermediatedaysinthecuriousstateofmindIhaveglancedat.Iwentdownearlyinthemorning,andalightedattheBlueBoaringoodtimetowalkovertotheforge.

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