Meanwhile Margaret Wilmot lived alone in her simple countrified lodging,
and thought sadly enough of the father whom she had lost.
He had not been a good father, but she had loved him nevertheless. She
had pitied him for his sorrows, and the wrongs that had been done him.
She had loved him for those feeble traces of a better nature that had
been dimly visible in his character.
"He had not been _always_ a cheat and reprobate," the girl thought as
she sat pondering upon her father's fate. "He never would have been
dishonest but for Henry Dunbar."
She remembered with bitter feelings the aspect of the rich man's house
in Portland Place. She had caught a glimpse of its splendour upon the
night after her return from Winchester. Through the narrow opening
between the folding-doors she had seen the pictures and the statues
glimmering in the lamplight of the inner hall. She had seen in that
brief moment a bright confusion of hothouse flowers, and trailing satin
curtains, gilded mouldings, and frescoed panels, the first few shallow
steps of a marble staircase, the filigree-work of the bronze balustrade.
Only for one moment had she peeped wonderingly into the splendid
interior of Henry Dunbar's mansion; but the objects seen in that one
brief glance had stamped themselves upon the girl's memory.
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