Her nerves were unstrung and her limbs languid after the recent tempest.

By-and-by she locked the doors of the wardrobe, and passing into her own bedroom, flung herself on a couch with a bundle of papers--old bills, soiled and folded memoranda, sporting paragraphs cut from the newspapers--scraps found in his pockets months ago and religiously tied by her with a silken ribbon.
They were mementoes of a sort, and George had written few letters while wooing--not half a dozen first and last.
Two or three receipted bills lay together in the middle of the packet--one a saddler's, a second a nurseryman's for pot-plants (kept for the sake of its queer spelling), a third the reckoning for an hotel luncheon.

She was running over them carelessly when the date at the head of this last one caught her eye.

"August 3rd "-- it fixed her attention because it happened to be the day before her birthday.
August 3rd--such and such a year--the August before his death; and the hotel a well-known one in Plymouth--the hotel, in fact, at which he had usually put up.

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