More than once in the night Mrs. Carbuncle crept up to the door of her
niece's room, endeavouring to ascertain what might be going on within. At
two o'clock, while she was on the landing, the candle was extinguished,
and she could hear Lucinda put herself to bed. At any rate so far things
were safe. An indistinct, incompleted idea of some possible tragedy had
flitted across the mind of the poor woman, causing her to shake and
tremble, forbidding her, weary as she was, to lie down; but now she told
herself at last that this was an idle phantasy, and she went to bed. Of
course Lucinda must go through with it. It had been her own doing, and Sir
Griffin was not worse than other men. As she said this to herself, Mrs.
Carbuncle hardened her heart by remembering that her own married life had
not been peculiarly happy.
Exactly at eight on the following morning she knocked at her niece's door
and was at once bidden to enter. "Come in, Aunt Jane." The words cheered
her wonderfully. At any rate there had been no tragedy as yet, and as she
turned the handle of the door she felt that, as a matter of course, the
marriage would go on just like any other marriage.
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