A black archway-gate swung open to the glittering fields of freedom.
Emma was not of the chorus.

Emma meditated as an invalid.

How often had Emma bewailed to her that the most, grievous burden of her malady was her fatal tendency to brood sickly upon human complications! She could not see the blessedness of the prospect of freedom to a woman abominably yoked.

What if a miserable woman were dragged through mire to reach it! Married, the mire was her portion, whatever she might do.

That man--but pass him! And that other--the dear, the kind, careless, high-hearted old friend.
He could honestly protest his guiltlessness, and would smilingly leave the case to go its ways.