“He denies nothing—he expresses himself rejoiced to have escaped—such was his expression—a marriage in which his heart never was engaged. He is unworthy of you—forget him.”
Florence shivered, and as Ferrers drew her arm in his own, her ungloved hand touched his, and the touch was like that of ice.
“What will the servants think?—what excuse can we make?” said Ferrers, when they stood beneath the porch. Florence did not reply; but as the door opened, she said softly,—
“I am ill—ill,” and clung to Ferrers with that unnerved and heavy weight which betokens faintness.
The light glared on her—the faces of the lacqueys betokened their undisguised astonishment. With a violent effort, Florence recovered herself, for she had not yet done with pride, swept through the hall with her usual stately step, slowly ascended the broad staircase, and gained the solitude of her own room, to fall senseless on the floor.
BOOK IX.
I go, the bride of Acheron.—SOPH. Antig.
These things are in the Future.—Ib. 1333.