From what she wrote they would imagine her contentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs of literature.

To no one could she make known the aching sadness of her heart, the dreariness of life as it lay before her.
That beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had led to nothing.

Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking to her husband about Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained from any further hint or question to Marian.

Everything must go on as hitherto.
The days darkened.

Through November rains and fogs Marian went her usual way to the Museum, and toiled there among the other toilers.