Across the gallery on the first floor they entered a little room
whose windows overlooked the garden. This was her bower--an
intimate cosy room, reflecting on every hand the gentle,
industrious personality of the owner. On an oak table near the
window were spread some papers and account-books concerned with
the estate--with which she had sought to beguile the time of
waiting. She led the way towards this, and, sinking into the
high-backed chair that stood before it, she looked up at him
expectantly. She was pale, there were dark stains under her eyes,
and wistful lines had crept into the sweet face of that neglected
wife.
Contemplating his poor victim now, Sir Richard may have compared
her with the woman by whom my lord desired so impatiently to
supplant her. She was tall and beautifully shaped, despite an
almost maidenly slenderness. Her countenance was gentle and
adorable, with its soft grey eyes and light brown hair, and
tender, wistful mouth.
It was not difficult to believe that Lord Robert had as ardently
desired her to wife five years ago as he now desired to be rid of
her. Then he obeyed the insistent spur of passion; now he obeyed
the remorseless spur of ambition.
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