“I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. If Miss Charvill should take it into her head to dash off on some foolish errand, go with her by all means. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. I was—I was a corespondent.
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