You think you know the meaning of poverty: you may; but you
do not know what a young woman who wants to earn her bread honestly has to
put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give a
lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or two shillings an hour.'
Julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into the
fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the air
of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that moment she caught
sight of the corner of a letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth
her hand, she took it. It was addressed to her husband.
'Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, and
it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black's
writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it
quickly.'
'That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.'
'Look and see. Be quick!'
Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia's face
caught expression from his, which had become overcast.
'It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don't keep me
waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.
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