On the train ride home from Oxford Margaret could cry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all the woes it had brought to her. No sooner was she fully aware of one loss than another came-not to supersede her grief for the one before, but to re-open wounds and feelings scarcely healed.
When night came-solemn night, and all the house was quiet, Margaret still sate watching the beauty of a London sky at such an hour, on such a summer evening.
She held Bessy's cup in her hand a took a sip of water.
Bessy was another one of those people she had lost in the last year. The first one actually, and after a very brief but meaningful friendship. Bessy died so young. Mr. Bell was old so his death was not quite so tragic. But he was all she had left - in England. Her last connection to her father and to – Milton… She was fairly certain Mr. Bell had never had the chance to speak with Mr. Thornton on her behalf. So there was yet another reason to mourn; her sin still lived on.
It was a just consequence of her sin, that all excuses for it, all temptation to it, should remain for ever unknown to the person in whose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to face at last with her sin. She knew it for what it was-if no one should ever know of her truth or her falsehood to measure out their honour or contempt for her by, straight alone where she stood, in the presence of God, she prayed that she might have strength to speak and act the truth for evermore.
With tears streaming down her face for the loss of her godfather and all of the other losses of the past twelve months Margaret wished Bessy was here to comfort her. She set the cup on her bedside table, climbed into bed, and tried to sleep.