Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the letter from her hand.
"Am I to read this?"
"When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering the most that I consider possible."
"I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can affect your son. I have never accused him."
"My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after reading the letter."
The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so long accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so long schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which shuts up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, the feeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she had subdued even her wonder until now.

Lady Dedlock takes the letter from her hand.
"Am I to read this?"
"When I am gone, my Lady, if you please."
"I know of nothing I keep back that can affect your son. I have never accused him."
The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth she is not a hard lady naturally. But she is long accustomed to suppress emotion, long schooled to shut up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber.
