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160 Beatrice now found herself in that most painful situation—an unwelcome visitor—knowing that she was an intruder, yet utterly unable to help herself. Supper was scarcely over, when her hostess rose—"I suppose the stranger sleeps here—you can come this way." So saying, she lighted another lamp, and showed her unfortunate guest to a room, the dirt and misery of whose appearance was as new to her as it was wretched. Without a word, she set down the lamp, and slammed the door—the very eloquence of anger to the vulgar. Disappointment too great to bear—vexation at the timidity which had prevented her asking about Lorraine—anger at her reception—dismay at her situation, overcame all her resolution, and it was long before she even struggled with her passion of tears. The absurdity would have lightened the insult, could she have suspected that her hostess was jealous, not inhospitable. Jealousy ought to be tragic, to save it from being ridiculous.