She grew so pale, so thin, so nervous, that Lord Atherton was alarmed about her.
If she had loved her husband less her despair would not have been so great.

Sooner than he should read those ill-considered words--those protestations of love that made her face flush with flame--sooner than he should read those she would die any death.

For it had come to that; she looked for death to save her.

She felt powerless in the hands of a villain who would never cease to persecute her.
She sent no answer to the letter.

What could she say?
She made one or two despairing efforts to get the money, found it impossible, then gave herself up for lost.
She did not write, but there came another note from him saying that unless he heard from her that the money was coming he would wait upon her husband on Friday morning and tell him all.
There was no further respite for her--the sword had fallen--she could not live and face it; she could not live knowing that her husband was to read those words of her folly, that he was to know all the deceit, the clandestine correspondence that weighed now so bear it.
"I shall never look in his face again," she said to herself.