Such was her
intentness, however, that it seemed as if her ears were performing
the functions of seeing as well as hearing. This extension of power
can almost be believed in at such moments. The deaf Dr. Kitto was
probably under the influence of a parallel fancy when he described his
body as having become, by long endeavour, so sensitive to vibrations
that he had gained the power of perceiving by it as by ears.

She could follow every word that the ramblers uttered. They were
talking no secrets. They were merely indulging in the ordinary
vivacious chat of relatives who have long been parted in person though
not in soul. But it was not to the words that Eustacia listened; she
could not even have recalled, a few minutes later, what the words
were. It was to the alternating voice that gave out about one-tenth of
them--the voice that had wished her good night. Sometimes this throat
uttered Yes, sometimes it uttered No; sometimes it made inquiries
about a timeworn denizen of the place. Once it surprised her notions
by remarking upon the friendliness and geniality written in the faces
of the hills around.

The three voices passed on, and decayed and died out upon her ear.
Thus much had been granted her; and all besides withheld. No event
could have been more exciting. During the greater part of the
afternoon she had been entrancing herself by imagining the fascination
which must attend a man come direct from beautiful Paris--laden with
its atmosphere, familiar with its charms. And this man had greeted
her.

With the departure of the figures the profuse articulations of the
women wasted away from her memory; but the accents of the other stayed
on. Was there anything in the voice of Mrs. Yeobright's son--for Clym
it was--startling as a sound? No; it was simply comprehensive. All
emotional things were possible to the speaker of that "good night."
Eustacia's imagination supplied the rest--except the solution to one
riddle. What COULD the tastes of that man be who saw friendliness and
geniality in these shaggy hills?

On such occasions as this a thousand ideas pass through a highly
charged woman's head; and they indicate themselves on her face; but
the changes, though actual, are minute. Eustacia's features went
through a rhythmical succession of them. She glowed; remembering the
mendacity of the imagination, she flagged; then she freshened; then
she fired; then she cooled again. It was a cycle of aspects, produced
by a cyc