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Still, how many go through life with the arrow in their side of which no one dreams—with some secret it were worse than death to divulge. Lady Staunton lives in that most wretched of restraints—perpetual reserve. I can conceive no punishment so dreadful as keeping perpetual watch on our words, lest they betray what they mean to conceal; to know no unguarded moment—no careless gaiety—to pine for the confidence which yet we dare not bestow—to tremble, lest that some hidden meaning lurk in a phrase which only our own sickly fancy could torture into bearing such—to have suspicion become a second nature—and to shrink every morning from the glad sunshine, for we know not what a day may bring forth: the wheel of Ixion were a tender mercy compared to such a state. Lady Staunton, too, fears her husband; and that says everything of misery that can fall to a woman's lot. It is dreadful to tremble at the step which was once earth's sweetest music—to start at a voice once so sweet in our ear, and watch if its tone be that of anger, even before we gather the import, and to hesitate before we meet eyes, now only too apt to look reproach and resentment. There is one touch of character full of knowledge in the human heart. Lady Staunton is glad to leave her sister's quiet parlour and garden, for the