’ She had given nothing away. The watch was again consulted. You dear, dear girl. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. The woman shrugged her shoulders. ’ ‘But, Marthe, you do not imagine that I would have taken the veil like you, even if you have not told me. For my part, I think those shackles extremely becoming.
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