The French Lieutenant’s Woman

When Charles departed from Aunt Tranter's house in Broad Street to stroll a hundred paces or so down to his hotel, there gravely--are not all declared lovers the world's fool?--to mount the stairs to his rooms and interrogate his good-looking face in the mirror, Ernestine excused herself and went to her room. She wanted to catch a last glimpse of her betrothed through the lace curtains; and she also wanted to be in the only room in her aunt's house that she could really tolerate.

"An eligible has occurred to me. Her name is Sarah Woodruff."

had not dear, kind Mrs. Poulteney taken in the French Lieutenant's Woman? I need hardly add that at the time the dear, kind lady knew only the other, more Grecian, nickname.

This remarkable event had taken place in the spring of 1866, exactly a year before the time of which I write; and it had to do with the great secret of Mrs. Poulteney's life. It was a very simple secret. She believed in hell.