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When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile Then she closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door and with her hands clasped After a fewon her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table Then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor

Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never have one draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In alh doubtless not all the truth,-- as which a the story of his life? She had endured violence, and had been violent She had been scheainst, and had schemed She had fitted herself to the life which had befallen her But in regard toof heart With her heart of hearts she had loved this young English, with all her charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey would this be which she must now est feeling which raged within her bosom was that of disappointed love Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm of abuse hich she had assailed hi counterfeited in her indignation But her love was no counterfeit At any moment if he would have returned to her and taken her in his ariven him but have blessed him also for his kindness She was in truth sick at heart of violence and rough living and unfes the old habit cas, if she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her, in which, free froenuine kindness of her woht she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl When she firstnear her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her But the reek of the gunpowder fro to her, and she now told herself again, as she had often told herself before, that it would have been better for her to have turned the ainst her own bosom