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 she stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known lineaments of Calantha's face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour's request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter. But it was received with sullen pride:—"Read this, Lady Avondale," she said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have seen that she was agitated; but the words—"Read this, Lady Avondale," repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself to open Sophia's letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. "The Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine," he said. She made no answer; but desired her maid to take it