Poor Ann was seized with a strange unreasoning rancor against all that decorously feeding company in the other room.

There are despairing moments, when the happy seem natural enemies of the miserable, and Ann was passing through them.

As she sat there in her gloomy isolation of widowhood, her black veil and her dark thoughts coloring her whole outlook on life, she felt a sudden fury of blindness against all who could see.
Had she been younger, she would have given vent to her emotion like Jerome.

Her son seemed the very expression of her own soul, although she rebuked him.
The people were a long time at supper.

The funeral cake was sweet to their tongues, and the tea mildly exhilarating.