She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Wild has done his business. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. Sheppard—becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually—provided he escaped the gallows—would descend to her son. I have been sitting with him ever since.
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