There were livid spots upon her
neck--livid spots upon her face, while the dry eyes seemed fading
out, so dull, and dim, and colorless they looked, as Edith read
the wailing cry with which Arthur St. Claire bade her his adieu.
For several minutes she sat perfectly motionless, save when the
muscles of her mouth twitched convulsively, and when the hard,
terrible look gave way--the spots began to fade--the color came
back to her cheeks--the eyes resumed their wonted brilliancy--the
fingers moved nervously, and Edith was herself. She had suffered
all she could, and never again would her palsied heart know the
same degree of pain which she experienced when reading Arthur's
letter. It was over now--the worst of it. Arthur knew of her
engagement--blessing her for it, and pitying he would not have it
otherwise. The bitterness of death was past, and henceforth none
save Grace and Victor suspected the worm which fed on Edith's very
life, so light, so merry, so joyous she appeared; and Edith was
happier than she had supposed it possible for her to be.
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