The usual time for Donald's arrival upstairs came and passed, yet still
the reading and conversation went on. This was very singular. She could
think of nothing but that some extraordinary crime had been committed,
and that the visitor, whoever he might be, was reading an account of it
from a special edition of the Casterbridge Chronicle. At last she left
the room, and descended the stairs. The dining-room door was ajar, and
in the silence of the resting household the voice and the words were
recognizable before she reached the lower flight. She stood transfixed.
Her own words greeted her in Henchard's voice, like spirits from the
grave.
Lucetta leant upon the banister with her cheek against the smooth
hand-rail, as if she would make a friend of it in her misery. Rigid in
this position, more and more words fell successively upon her ear. But
what amazed her most was the tone of her husband. He spoke merely in the
accents of a man who made a present of his time.
"One word," he was saying, as the crackling of paper denoted that
Henchard was unfolding yet another sheet. "Is it quite fair to this
young woman's memory to read at such length to a stranger what was
intended for your eye alone?"
"Well, yes," said Henchard. "By not giving her name I make it an example
of all womankind, and not a scandal to one.
Pages:
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357