Toward the close of the December afternoon, Magdalen sat alone in the
lodging which she had occupied since her arrival in London. The fire
burned sluggishly in the narrow little grate; the view of the wet houses
and soaking gardens opposite was darkening fast; and the bell of the
suburban muffin-boy tinkled in the distance drearily. Sitting close over
the fire, with a little money lying loose in her lap, Magdalen absently
shifted the coins to and fro on the smooth surface of her dress,
incessantly altering their positions toward each other, as if they were
pieces of a "child's puzzle" which she was trying to put together.
The dim fire-light flaming up on her faintly from time to time showed
changes which would have told their own tale sadly to friends of former
days. Her dress had become loose through the wasting of her figure; but
she had not cared to alter it. The old restlessness in her movements,
the old mobility in her expression, appeared no more. Her face passively
maintained its haggard composure, its changeless unnatural calm. Mr.
Pendril might have softened his hard sentence on her, if he had seen
her now; and Mrs. Lecount, in the plenitude of her triumph, might have
pitied her fallen enemy at last.
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