When her brother left the house
(having waited two hours in vain for Olga's return), she made a
change of garb, arranged her hair with something of the old grace,
and moved restlessly from room to room. A light had touched her
countenance, dispelling years of premature age; she was still a
handsome woman; she could still find in her heart the courage for a
strong decision.
There was no maid--Mrs. Hannaford herself laid upon the table what
was to serve for an evening meal; and she had just done so when her
daughter came in. Olga had changed considerably in the past three
years; at one-and-twenty she would have passed for several years
older; her complexion was fatigued, her mouth had a nervous mobility
which told of suppressed suffering, her movements were impatient,
irritable. But at this moment she did not wear a look of
unhappiness; there was a glow in her fine eyes, a tremour of resolve
on all her features. On entering the room where her mother stood,
she at once noticed a change. Their looks met: they gazed excitedly
at each other.
"What is it? Why have you dressed?"
"Because I am a free woman. My sister is dead, and has left me a lot
of money."
They rushed into each other's arms; they caressed with tears and
sobs; it was minutes before they could utter more than broken
phrases and exclamations.
"What shall you do?" the girl asked at length, holding her mother's
hand against her heart.
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