“Saw the pretty little governess going to church; felt half inclined to go too, just to look at her,” he murmured once while she sat by his bedside listening. But then he rambled off into talk which concerned a dog he had bought, and Susan Green, the blacksmith’s daughter, and let fall some epithets which, it occurred to Annie, would apply particularly well to Miss West, at whose house he and his companions had been supping on the Wednesday night, or rather Thursday morning, when she had run against him in Beckham Street, and when he had met with his accident. It was a hard punishment for the weakness of marrying him and the fault of leaving him that she was suffering now, as she listened to his wandering talk about other women, which showed his contempt for a sex he did not understand, or think worth the trouble of trying to understand. And all the while she had to try to overcome the disgust with which he inspired her and the longing to be again in the society of one man, one brilliant, interesting companion, for whom every word she uttered had a charm, every action of hers was right. When Mrs. Stanley took her place in the sickroom, she would fly like an escaped bird out of doors, and wander through the fields and the now leafless copses by herself, rejoicing in her temporary freedom, trying to forget the horrible fact that she was married, and the very existence of that unconscious, senseless clog upon her life that she had left in the darkened room up-stairs. These rambles brought almost as much pain as pleasure to her; they recalled to her so vividly the long marauding expeditions she had had with William, when they used to return home laden with birds’ eggs and ducks’ feathers, and moss-covered twigs, all of which William had to carry as soon as they got near the house, for fear any of the household should think that Mrs. Harold Braithwaite was so childish as to care for such rubbish. Harry had been merely an every-day trial then, to be shirked as much as conscience permitted; now he had become, and by her own fault, an obstacle to her happiness which there was no possibility of removing. She had returned to the sickroom one afternoon to relieve the housekeeper, and, finding that Harry was sleeping quietly--a fact which made her a little nervous, as it proved he was getting better--she opened a book and settled herself in an arm-chair by the fire, whence she could see any movement of the invalid’s by merely raising her eyes. The book was George Sands’ “Consuelo.” Opening it at first carelessly, the earliest pages fixed her attention, and before long she bent over it, completely absorbed in the fascinating story.