Her friends were in Canada; her
relations in England were dead. Mercy knew the place in which she
had lived--the place called Port Logan--as well as she had known
it herself. Mercy had only to read the manuscript journal to be
able to answer any questions relating to the visit to Rome and to
Colonel Roseberry's death. She had no accompl ished lady to
personate: Grace had spoken herself--her father's letter spoke
also in the plainest terms--of her neglected education.
Everything, literally everything, was in the lost woman's favor.
The people with whom she had been connected in the ambulance had
gone, to return no more. Her own clothes were on Miss Roseberry
at that moment--marked with her own name. Miss Roseberry's
clothes, marked with _her_ name, were drying, at Mercy's
disposal, in the next room. The way of escape from the
unendurable humiliation of her present life lay open before her
at last. What a prospect it was! A new identity, which she might
own anywhere! a new name, which was beyond reproach! a new past
life, into which all the world might search, and be welcome! Her
color rose, her eyes sparkled; she had never been so irresistibly
beautiful as she looked at the moment when the new future
disclosed itself, radiant with new hope.
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