Poor Marguerite. All prospect of happiness had now fled from her
vision. She saw instead sorrow, disappointment, and, perhaps, death.
"If papa survives the shock I will face the world, and, amid
poverty, and the slights of my former companions, I will toil--yes,
I will work at anything that I can do in honesty." And with this
high resolve Marguerite set forth to break the sad news to her
worldly-minded mother.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE STORM THICKENS.
It would be much easier to imagine than describe the violent
paroxysms of grief (if we may use the expression) which seized upon
Mrs. Verne when Marguerite calmly broke the unwelcome news. Grief
did we say--yes--"not the grief that saps the mind," but grief for
the deprivation of those luxuries which the woman had considered as
part and parcel of herself.
"It is just what one might have expected from the loose way in which
your father has been transacting his business," cried Mrs. Verne,
wringing her hands, and lamenting wildly; and then turning upon her
daughter the full benefit of her penetrating eyes, added, "and it is
not himself that will suffer the most, but think of us Madge. How
nice you will look going out to earn your living, perhaps, behind
some counter, or worse still, apprenticed to a dressmaker and
blinding yourself over such rags as we would not condescend to put
on, nor, more than that, recognize the people to whom they
belonged.
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