At the funeral, this extravagant role of grief was re-enacted, and the impression was left on many minds that she was half mad with grief.
Occasionally, after this event, I was summoned to the Allen House to see its unhappy mistress.

I say unhappy, for no human being ever had a face written all over with the characters you might read in hers, that was not miserable.

I used to study it, sometimes, to see if I could get anything like a true revelation of her inner life.

The sudden lighting up of her countenance at times, as you observed its rapidly varying expression, made you almost shudder, for the gleam which shot across it looked like a reflection from hell.

I know no other word to express what I mean.