A new element of misery was added to her life by the sight of Wentworth, and his visits were becoming frequent.
His mere presence made acute once more that other memory, partially blurred, persistently pushed aside--the memory of Michael in prison.

The figure of the duke had temporarily displaced that other figure in its cell.
But now the remembrance of Michael, continually stirred up by poor Wentworth, with his set, bereaved face, was never suffered to sleep.
With every week of her life it seemed to Fay some new pain came.
Magdalen could not comfort her.

Magdalen, who was so fond of Michael.
_If Magdalen knew!_ _Magdalen must never, never know._ She could not live without Magdalen.
Magdalen was not like Andrea in that.

She at any rate was concealing nothing, could know nothing.

Now that Andrea was dead, only one living person beside herself _knew_--Michael.