The house in which Tess had passed the years of her childhood was
now inhabited by another family who had never known her. The new
residents were in the garden, taking as much interest in their own
doings as if the homestead had never passed its primal time in
conjunction with the histories of others, beside which the histories
of these were but as a tale told by an idiot. They walked about the
garden paths with thoughts of their own concerns entirely uppermost,
bringing their actions at every moment in jarring collision with the
dim ghosts behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived
there were not one whit intenser in story than now. Even the spring
birds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody
missing in particular.
On inquiry of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of
their predecessors was a failing memory, Clare learned that John
Durbeyfield was dead; that his widow and children had left Marlott,
declaring that they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of
doing so had gone on to another place they mentioned. By this time
Clare abhorred the house for ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened
away from its hated presence without once looking back.
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