She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. “They all catch on,” she said. ‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart.
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