It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand. “Second class,” said some one, but first and second were all alike to her.
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