The old woman was in despair about the laundress, for her first and only thought was for "master's shirts." Ernest locked himself in his room.
Alice! poor Alice! In little more than twenty minutes, the chaise was at the door: and Ernest, pale as death, came into the room where he had left Alice.
She was seated on the floor, and the fatal paper was on her lap.

She had been endeavouring, in vain, to learn what had so sensibly affected Maltravers, for, as I said before, she was unacquainted with his real name, and therefore the ominous paragraph did not even arrest her eye.
He took the paper from her, for he wanted again and again to read it: some little word of hope or encouragement must have escaped him.

And then Alice flung herself on his breast.

"Do not weep," said he; "Heaven knows I have sorrow enough of my own! My father is dying! So kind, so generous, so indulgent! O God, forgive me! Compose yourself, Alice.

You will hear from me in a day or two." He kissed her, but the kiss was cold and forced.