Rachel started, and composed herself. She crossed the room to her
mother.
"They have come to take me to the flower-show," she said. "One word,
mamma, before I go. I have not distressed you, have I?"
(Is the bluntness of moral feeling which could ask such a question as
that, after what had just happened, to be pitied or condemned? I like to
lean towards mercy. Let us pity it.)
The drops had produced their effect. My poor aunt's complexion was like
itself again. "No, no, my dear," she said. "Go with our friends, and
enjoy yourself."
Her daughter stooped, and kissed her. I had left the window, and was
near the door, when Rachel approached it to go out. Another change had
come over her--she was in tears. I looked with interest at the momentary
softening of that obdurate heart. I felt inclined to say a few earnest
words. Alas! my well-meant sympathy only gave offence. "What do you
mean by pitying me?" she asked in a bitter whisper, as she passed to
the door. "Don't you see how happy I am? I'm going to the flower-show,
Clack; and I've got the prettiest bonnet in London." She completed the
hollow mockery of that address by blowing me a kiss--and so left the
room.
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