If the hand of Lady
Linlithgow ever trembled, it trembled from anger. If her foot ever
faltered, it faltered for effect. In her way Lady Linlithgow was a very
powerful human being. She knew nothing of fear, nothing of charity,
nothing of mercy, and nothing of the softness of love. She had no
imagination. She was worldly, covetous, and not unfrequently cruel. But
she meant to be true and honest, though she often failed in her meaning,
and she had an idea of her duty in life. She was not self-indulgent. She
was as hard as an oak post, but then she was also as trustworthy. No human
being liked her; but she had the good word of a great many human beings.
At great cost to her own comfort, she had endeavoured to do her duty to
her niece, Lizzie Greystock, when Lizzie was homeless. Undoubtedly
Lizzie's bed, while it had been spread under her aunt's roof, had not been
one of roses; but such as it had been, she had endured to occupy it while
it served her needs. She had constrained herself to bear her aunt; but
from the moment of her escape she had chosen to reject her aunt
altogether. Now her aunt's heavy step was heard upon the stairs! Lizzie
also was a brave woman after a certain fashion.
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