Whatever she felt was buried in her own breast.

Her face shone marble-white underneath her vail, and her eyes were bent downward.

Never a word did she speak as the carriage drove slowly through the park, where the dews were falling and the stars were bright.
Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in his, but she drew back.
"It will be better not to talk, Norman," she said.

"I can bear it best in silence." So they drove on in unbroken quietude.

The dew lay glistening on the grass and trees; all nature was hushed, tranquil, sweet, and still.