So far, a remarkably well-preserved woman. But her
beauty is wrecked, like an ageless landscape ravaged by long and
fierce war. Her eyes are alive, arresting and haunting; and there
is still a turn of delicate beauty and pride in her indomitable
chin; but her cheeks are wasted and lined, her mouth writhen and
piteous. The whole face is a battlefield of the passions, quite
deplorable until she speaks, when an alert sense of fun
rejuvenates her in a moment, and makes her company irresistible.
All rise except Soames, who sits down. Leo joins Reginald at the
garden door. Mrs Bridgenorth hurries to the tower to receive her
guest, and gets as far as Soames's chair when Mrs George appears.
Hotchkiss, apparently recognizing her, recoils in consternation
to the study door at the furthest corner of the room from her.
MRS GEORGE [coming straight to the Bishop with the ring in her
hand] Here is your ring, my lord; and here am I. It's your doing,
remember: not mine.
THE BISHOP. Good of you to come.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. How do you do, Mrs Collins?
MRS GEORGE [going to her past the Bishop, and gazing intently at
her] Are you his wife?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. The Bishop's wife? Yes.
MRS GEORGE. What a destiny! And you look like any other woman!
MRS BRIDGENORTH [introducing Lesbia] My sister, Miss Grantham.
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