She groaned and tortured the tears from her eyes; she pinched her own flesh till it was black and blue, and scratched it with her nails till it bled,--and she prayed inaudibly, but with evident desperation.

Sometimes her gestures were frantic, sometimes appealing; but she made no noise that was loud enough to attract attention from any of the dwellers in the house.

Her stolid features were contorted with anguish,--and had she been an erring nun of the creed she held in such bitter abhorrence, who, for some untold crime, endured a self-imposed penance, she could not have punished her own flesh much more severely.
She remained some quarter of an hour or twenty minutes thus; then rising from her knees, she wiped the tears from her eyes and re-clothed herself,--and with her usual calm, immovable aspect--though smarting from the injuries she had inflicted on herself--she descended to the kitchen, there to prepare Mr.Dyceworthy's tea with all the punctilious care and nicety befitting the meal of so good a man and so perfect a saint..