She flung herself upon his body, tore her hair, and
committed other extravagances. All the slumbering passions of her
undisciplined nature seemed quickened into sudden life,
overmastering her in their strong excitement. So it would have
seemed to a less suspicious observer; but I thought that I could
detect the overacting of pretence. I may have done her wrong; but
the impression still remains. At the funeral, this extravagant role
of grief was re-enacted, and the impression was left on many minds
that she was half mad with grief.
Occasionally, after this event, I was summoned to the Allen House to
see its unhappy mistress. I say unhappy, for no human being ever had
a face written all over with the characters you might read in hers,
that was not miserable. I used to study it, sometimes, to see if I
could get anything like a true revelation of her inner life. The
sudden lighting up of her countenance at times, as you observed its
rapidly varying expression, made you almost shudder, for the gleam
which shot across it looked like a reflection from hell. I know no
other word to express what I mean.
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