It was more romantic to say nothing,
and, drinking deep, in secret, of romance, she was as little
disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she would have been to close
that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing of these
discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister's career a
strange anti-climax- an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel's
silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to
the frequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened
very often it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost
her courage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as
inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it
added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other
people.
Our young lady's courage, however, might have been taken as reaching
its height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver
things than spending the winter in Paris- Paris had sides by which
it so resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose- and her
close correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such
flights. She had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the
absolute boldness and wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away
from the platform at the Euston Station on one of the last days of
November, after the departure of the train that was to convey poor
Lily, her husband and her children to their ship at Liverpool.
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