Summarize the following text to main points and sub-points and make detailed explain for them:

le in sober business hours, became 
intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before his adversary's 
deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned up a mean trump-card with an 
air of inexpressible disgust, as if in a world where such things could 
happen one might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy. When 
the evening had advanced to this pitch of freedom and enjoyment, it was 
usual for the servants, the heavy duties of supper being well over, to get 
their share of amusement by coming to look on at the dancing; so that 
the back regions of the house were left in solitude. 
There were two doors by which the White Parlour was entered from the 
hall, and they were both standing open for the sake of air; but the lower 
one was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the upper 
doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, and his 
father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedly declared to be 
just like himself in his young days in a tone that implied this to be the 
very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who had 
placed themselves opposite the performer, not far from the upper door. 
Godfrey was standing a little way off, not to admire his brother's 
dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, who was seated in the group, near 
her father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid suggesting himself 
as a subject for the Squire's fatherly jokes in connection with matrimony 
and Miss Nancy Lammeter's beauty, which were likely to become more 
and more explicit. But he had the prospect of dancing with her again 
when the hornpipe was concluded, and in the meanwhile it was very 
pleasant to get long glances at her quite unobserved. 
But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of those long glances, 
they encountered an object as startling to him at that moment as if it had 
been an apparition from the dead. It was an apparition from that hidden 
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life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the goodly ornamented 
facade that meets the sunlight and the gaze of respectable admirers. It 
was his own child, carried in Silas Marner's arms. That was his 
instantaneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had not 
seen the child for months past; and when the hope was rising that he 
might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had 
already advanced to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent. 
Godfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every 
word—trying to control himself, but conscious that if any one noticed 
him, they must see that he was white-lipped and trembling. 
But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on Silas Marner; the 
Squire himself had risen, and asked angrily, "How's this?—what's this?—
what do you do coming in here in this way?" 
"I'm come for the doctor—I want the doctor," Silas had said, in the first 
moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp. 
"Why, what's the matter, Marner?" said the rector. "The doctor's here; 
but say quietly what you want him for." 
"It's a woman," said Silas, speaking low, and half-breathlessly, just as 
Godfrey came up. "She's dead, I think—dead in the snow at the Stone-
pits—not far from my door." 
Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in his mind at that 
moment: it was, that the woman might not be dead. That was an evil 
terror—an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey's kindly 
disposition; but no disposition is a security from evil wishes to a man 
whose happiness hangs on duplicity. 
"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Crackenthorp. "Go out into the hall there. I'll 
fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow—and thinks she's 
dead," he added, speaking low to the Squire. "Better say as little about it 
as possible: it will shock the ladies. Just tell them a poor woman is ill 
from cold and hunger. I'll go and fetch Kimble." 
By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious to know 
what could have brought the solitary linen-weaver there under such 
strange circumstances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half 
alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous 
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company, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head again 
and looked round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back 
the frown, and made her bury her face with new determination. 
"What child is it?" said several ladies at once, and, among the rest, Nancy 
Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. 
"I don't know—some poor woman's who has been found in the snow, I 
believe," was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with a terrible 
effort. ("After all, am I certain?" he hastened to add, silently, in 
anticipation of his own conscience.) 
"Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, Master Marner," said good-
natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take those dingy clothes 
into contact with her own ornamented satin bodice. "I'll tell one o' the 
girls to fetch it." 
"No—no—I can't part with it, I can't let it go," said Silas, abruptly. "It's 
come to me—I've a right to keep it." 
The proposition to take the child from him had come to Silas quite 
unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under a strong sudden impulse, 
was almost like a revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no 
distinct intention about the child. 
"Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise, to her 
neighbour. 
"Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside," said Mr. Kimble, 
coming from the card-room, in some bitterness at the interruption, but 
drilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant 
calls, even when he was hardly sober. 
"It's a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble?" said the Squire. "He 
might ha' gone for your young fellow—the 'prentice, there—what's his 
name?" 
"Might? aye—what's the use of talking about might?" growled uncle 
Kimble, hastening out with Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp 
and Godfrey. "Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? And stay, 
let somebody run to Winthrop's and fetch Dolly—she's the best woman 
to get. Ben was here himself before supper; is he gone?" 
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"Yes, sir, I met him," said Marner; "but I couldn't stop to tell him 
anything, only I said I was going for the doctor, and he said the doctor 
was at the Squire's. And I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to 
be seen at the back o' the house, and so I went in to where the company 
was." 
The child, no longer distracted by the bright light and the smiling 
women's faces, began to cry and call for "mammy", though always 
clinging to Marner, who had apparently won her thorough confidence. 
Godfrey had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if some fibre 
were drawn tight within him. 
"I'll go," he said, hastily, eager for some movement; "I'll go and fetch the 
woman—Mrs. Winthrop." 
"Oh, pooh—send somebody else," said uncle Kimble, hurrying away with 
Marner. 
"You'll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble," said Mr. 
Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of hearing. 
Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch his hat and coat, 
having just reflection enough to remember that he must not look like a 
madman; but he rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding 
his thin shoes. 
In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone-pits by the side of 
Dolly, who, though feeling that she was entirely in her place in 
encountering cold and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned 
at a young gentleman's getting his feet wet under a like impulse. 
"You'd a deal better go back, sir," said Dolly, with respectful compassion. 
"You've no call to catch cold; and I'd ask you if you'd be so good as tell 
my husband to come, on your way back—he's at the Rainbow, I doubt—if 
you found him anyway sober enough to be o' use. Or else, there's Mrs. 
Snell 'ud happen send the boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be 
things wanted from the doctor's." 
"No, I'll stay, now I'm once out—I'll stay outside here," said Godfrey, 
when they came opposite Marner's cottage. "You can come and tell me if 
I can do anything." 
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"Well, sir, you're very good: you've a tender heart," said Dolly, going to 
the door. 
Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge of self-reproach at 
this undeserved praise. He walked up and down, unconscious that he 
was plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but 
trembling suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the 
effect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite unconscious of 
everything else. Deeper down, and half-smothered by passionate desire 
and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to be waiting on these 
alternatives; that he ought to accept the consequences of his deeds, own 
the miserable wife, and fulfil the claims of the helpless child. But he had 
not moral courage enough to contemplate that active renunciation of 
Nancy as possible for him: he had only conscience and hear

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