Victoria bent over her embroidery, smiling a little, unseen, and, in
truth, not ill pleased. Yet there was something disturbing in these
occasional outbursts. For the little Southerner's own sake, one must take
care they led to nothing serious. For really--quite apart from any other
consideration--Harry never took the smallest notice of her. And who could
know better than his mother that his thoughts were still held, still
tormented by the vision of Lydia?
Felicia slipped out of a glass door that led to the columned veranda
outside. Victoria, mindful of the girl's delicate look, hurried after her
with a fur wrap. Felicia gratefully but absently kissed her hand, and
Victoria left her to her own thoughts.
It was a sunny day, and although November was well in, there was almost
an Italian warmth in this southern loggia where roses were still
blooming. Felicia walked up and down, her gaze wandering over the
mountain landscape to the south--the spreading flanks and slopes of
the high fells, scarlet with withered fern, and capped with new-fallen
snow. Through the distant landscape she perceived the line of the stream
which ran under Flitterdale Common with its high cliff-banks, and hanging
woods, now dressed in the last richness of autumn. That distant wall of
trees--behind it, she knew, was Threlfall Tower. Her father--her unkind,
miserly father, who hated both her and her mother--lived there.
How far was it? A long way! But she would get there somehow.
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