"Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. To be frank with you, I have an affront to requite, which can be settled at the same time, and in the same way with your affair. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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