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of her danger, and to what hospice can she flee for refuge? These questions troubled everybody, more or less, who knew Lizzie, except herself; and they troubled Alice more than anyone, perhaps, though she was in no way concerned, as she assured herself with great firmness several hundred times a day on an average. There seemed, however, some strange conspiracy in the air—in the very flowers of her garden, and the wattle blossoms that shook their golden hailstorms over the wall—to draw the net closer around her and bring her into the meshes of fate along with the Austin family, however she might struggle against it. Even Mrs. Granby, the solemn, the dignified pattern of propriety, had in some mysterious way sought her out for counsel and consolation. “My dear Miss Lauder, Lizzie does not know what love is! She has really never loved; Thomas was saying so only this morning to me. We must hope and believe that she never will. Of course I know how much she is attached to Mr. Austin, and he deserves all her gratitude and esteem. But it was a mariage de convenance, as everyone knows. Now love, Miss Lauder, that is a different thing; our hearts have had some experience, though I dare say you young people think you have it all to yourselves.”