Her ladyship's theory was the
correct one, for by acting in this manner she would be relieved from the
hubbub and cry of "Who is she?" and "Where does she come from?" that
would consequently follow, should she at once rush into the vortex of
fashionable life. She had no intention of burying herself at
Pallamcotta, now that she had attained the position for which she had
risked so much. She had played her cards boldly and unscrupulously, and,
during the shuffle had twice nearly come to ruin; but she had now, she
believed, won the odd trick that would secure her the game, and she
resolutely determined to hold on to the stakes thus acquired. From the
retrospect of her past life she turned herself steadfastly away, and
looked only into the brilliant future, which she fancied was opening
before her. What was there to fear? There was no one in India who could
recognize her, or knew anything of her antecedents. Edith and Arthur had
returned to England; restitution had been made and justice done them by
the unlooked for death of Sir Ralph Coleman. He was the chief culprit;
she merely an accessory, acting under his direction and guidance; and,
now that she had placed oceans between her and the scene of their crime,
nothing, she argued, could transpire to mar her triumph, and, laying
this flattering unction to her soul, her ladyship prepared for her
journey with a buoyancy of spirit that astonished even herself.
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