"I mean to keep them together," said Angela, with a firm decision.
Her mother looked at her with admiration.
"My dear daughter, I will assist you."
The two ladies had such an air of mysterious competence to the task they
had undertaken that it seemed to Bernard that nothing was left to him
but to retire into temporary exile. He accordingly betook himself to
London, where he had social resources which would, perhaps, make exile
endurable. He found himself, however, little disposed to avail himself
of these resources, and he treated himself to no pleasures but those of
memory and expectation. He ached with a sense of his absence from Mrs.
Vivian's deeply familiar sky-parlor, which seemed to him for the time
the most sacred spot on earth--if on earth it could be called--and he
consigned to those generous postal receptacles which ornament with their
brilliant hue the London street-corners, an inordinate number of the
most voluminous epistles that had ever been dropped into them. He took
long walks, alone, and thought all the way of Angela, to whom, it seemed
to him, that the character of ministering angel was extremely becoming.
She was faithful to her promise of writing to him every day, and she was
an angel who wielded--so at least Bernard thought, and he was particular
about letters--a very ingenious pen.
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