Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Has he given you the tools?" "He has," replied Bess, producing the handkerchief. Michelle’s eyes widened. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming.
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