The Count of Monte Cristo

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which covered it, lay the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since
the account he had so unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees,
and with her head buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine,
trembling and sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and
stiff. She had turned from the window, which remained open, and was
praying in accents that would have affected the most unfeeling; her
words were rapid, incoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of
grief almost stopped her utterance. The moon shining through the open
blinds made the lamp appear to burn paler, and cast a sepulchral hue
over the whole scene. Morrel could not resist this; he was not exemplary
for piety, he was not easily impressed, but Valentine suffering,
weeping, wringing her hands before him, was more than he could bear in
silence. He sighed, and whispered a name, and the head bathed in tears
and pressed on the velvet cushion of the chair--a head like that of
a Magdalen by Correggio--was raised and turned towards him. Valentine
perceived him without betraying the least surprise. A heart overwhelmed
with one great grief is insensible to minor emotions. Morrel held out