- end_line
- 13632
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 13603
- text
-
"Pierre! a letter for thee--dost thou hear? a letter,--may I come in?"
At once he felt a dart of surprise and apprehension; for he was
precisely in that general condition with respect to the outer world,
that he could not reasonably look for any tidings but disastrous, or at
least, unwelcome ones. He assented; and Isabel entered, holding out the
billet in her hand.
"'Tis from some lady, Pierre; who can it be?--not thy mother though, of
that I am certain;--the expression of her face, as seen by me, not at
all answering to the expression of this handwriting here."
"My mother? from my mother?" muttered Pierre, in wild vacancy--"no! no!
it can scarce be from her.--Oh, she writes no more, even in her own
private tablets now! Death hath stolen the last leaf, and rubbed all
out, to scribble his own ineffaceable _hic jacet_ there!"
"Pierre!" cried Isabel, in affright.
"Give it me!" he shouted, vehemently, extending his hand. "Forgive me,
sweet, sweet Isabel, I have wandered in my mind; this book makes me mad.
There; I have it now"--in a tone of indifference--"now, leave me again.
It is from some pretty aunt, or cousin, I suppose," carelessly balancing
the letter in his hand.
Isabel quitted the room; the moment the door closed upon her, Pierre
eagerly split open the letter, and read:--
- title
- Chunk 2