But now he sat near her, dropping once and again half words of love, hearing her references to the old times; and yet he said nothing.
But how was he to speak of love to one who was a widow but of four months' standing?
And with what face could he now again ask for her hand, knowing that it had been filled so full since last it was refused to him?
It was thus she argued to herself when she excused him in that he did not speak to her.

As to her widowhood, to herself it was a thing of scorn.

Thinking of it, she cast her weepers from her, and walked about the room, scorning the hypocrisy of her dress.

It needed that she should submit herself to this hypocrisy before the world; but he might know--for had she not told him ?--that the clothes she wore were no index of her feeling or of her heart.

She had been mean enough, base enough, vile enough, to sell herself to that wretched lord.