Yet, what
had she done? A daughter had delicately alluded to her grief at the
loss of a parent, and expressed her keen sense of the deprivation.
It was an autumnal afternoon: Doctor Masham looked at the sky, and,
after a long pause, made an observation about the weather, and then
requested permission to order his horses, as the evening came on
apace, and he had some distance to ride. Lady Annabel rose; the
Doctor, with a countenance unusually serious, offered her his arm; and
Venetia followed them like a criminal. In a few minutes the horses
appeared; Lady Annabel bid adieu to her friend in her usual kind tone,
and with her usual sweet smile; and then, without noticing Venetia,
instantly retired to her own chamber.
And this was her mother; her mother who never before quitted her for
an instant without some sign and symbol of affection, some playful
word of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that seemed to
acknowledge that the pang of even momentary separation could only be
alleviated by this graceful homage to the heart. What had she done?
Venetia was about to follow Lady Annabel, but she checked herself.
Agony at having offended her mother, and, for the first time, was
blended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, and some hesitating
indignation at her treatment.
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