"I saw Mrs. Dewey this morning," said my wife, one day, late in
November. "She was in at Howard's making some purchases."
"Did you speak to her?"
"Yes, we passed a few words. How much she has changed!"
"For the worse?"
"Yes. She appears five years older than she did last summer, and has
such a sad, disappointed look, that I could not help pitying her
from my heart."
"There are few who need your pity more, Constance. I think she must
be wretched almost beyond endurance. So young, and the goblet which
held the shine of her life broken, and all its precious contents
spilled in the thirsty sand at her feet. Every one seems to have
receded from her."
"The common sentiment is against her; and yet, I am of those who
never believed her any thing worse than indiscreet."
"Her indiscretion was in itself a heinous offence against good
morals," said I; "and while she has my compassion, I have no wish
to see a different course of treatment pursued towards her."
"I haven't much faith in the soundness of this common sentiment
against her," replied Constance.
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