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

t. And 
the child, too, he thought, must become an object of repulsion: the very 
sight of her would be painful. The shock to Nancy's mingled pride and 
ignorance of the world's evil might even be too much for her delicate 
frame. Since he had married her with that secret on his heart, he must 
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keep it there to the last. Whatever else he did, he could not make an 
irreparable breach between himself and this long-loved wife. 
Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to the absence of 
children from a hearth brightened by such a wife? Why did his mind fly 
uneasily to that void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not 
thoroughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all men and 
women who reach middle age without the clear perception that life 
never can be thoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the grey 
hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation 
of an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on a childless hearth, 
thinks with envy of the father whose return is greeted by young voices—
seated at the meal where the little heads rise one above another like 
nursery plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every one of them, 
and thinks the impulses by which men abandon freedom, and seek for 
ties, are surely nothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey's case there were 
further reasons why his thoughts should be continually solicited by this 
one point in his lot: his conscience, never thoroughly easy about Eppie, 
now gave his childless home the aspect of a retribution; and as the time 
passed on, under Nancy's refusal to adopt her, any retrieval of his error 
became more and more difficult. 
On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years since there had been 
any allusion to the subject between them, and Nancy supposed that it 
was for ever buried. 
"I wonder if he'll mind it less or more as he gets older," she thought; "I'm 
afraid more. Aged people feel the miss of children: what would father do 
without Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely—not holding 
together with his brothers much. But I won't be over-anxious, and trying 
to make things out beforehand: I must do my best for the present." 
With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her reverie, and turned 
her eyes again towards the forsaken page. It had been forsaken longer 
than she imagined, for she was presently surprised by the appearance of 
the servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a little before the usual 
time for tea; but Jane had her reasons. 
"Is your master come into the yard, Jane?" 
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"No 'm, he isn't," said Jane, with a slight emphasis, of which, however, 
her mistress took no notice. 
"I don't know whether you've seen 'em, 'm," continued Jane, after a 
pause, "but there's folks making haste all one way, afore the front 
window. I doubt something's happened. There's niver a man to be seen i' 
the yard, else I'd send and see. I've been up into the top attic, but there's 
no seeing anything for trees. I hope nobody's hurt, that's all." 
"Oh, no, I daresay there's nothing much the matter," said Nancy. "It's 
perhaps Mr. Snell's bull got out again, as he did before." 
"I wish he mayn't gore anybody then, that's all," said Jane, not altogether 
despising a hypothesis which covered a few imaginary calamities. 
"That girl is always terrifying me," thought Nancy; "I wish Godfrey would 
come in." 
She went to the front window and looked as far as she could see along 
the road, with an uneasiness which she felt to be childish, for there were 
now no such signs of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey 
would not be likely to return by the village road, but by the fields. She 
continued to stand, however, looking at the placid churchyard with the 
long shadows of the gravestones across the bright green hillocks, and at 
the glowing autumn colours of the Rectory trees beyond. Before such 
calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is more distinctly felt—
like a raven flapping its slow wing across the sunny air. Nancy wished 
more and more that Godfrey would come in. 
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CHAPTER 18 
 
Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancy felt 
that it was her husband. She turned from the window with gladness in 
her eyes, for the wife's chief dread was stilled. 
"Dear, I'm so thankful you're come," she said, going towards him. "I 
began to get—" 
She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his hat with trembling 
hands, and turned towards her with a pale face and a strange 
unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a 
scene invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to 
speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw himself into his 
chair. 
Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. "Tell her to keep away, 
will you?" said Godfrey; and when the door was closed again he exerted 
himself to speak more distinctly. 
"Sit down, Nancy—there," he said, pointing to a chair opposite him. "I 
came back as soon as I could, to hinder anybody's telling you but me. I've 
had a great shock—but I care most about the shock it'll be to you." 
"It isn't father and Priscilla?" said Nancy, with quivering lips, clasping 
her hands together tightly on her lap. 
"No, it's nobody living," said Godfrey, unequal to the considerate skill 
with which he would have wished to make his revelation. "It's Dunstan—
my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We've found 
him—found his body—his skeleton." 
The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy made her feel these 
words a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear what else he had 
to tell. He went on: 
"The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly—from the draining, I suppose; and 
there he lies—has lain for sixteen years, wedged between two great 
stones. There's his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled 
hunting-whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my knowing, 
the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen." 
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Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. "Do you think 
he drowned himself?" said Nancy, almost wondering that her husband 
should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago to 
an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured. 
"No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as if he felt some 
deep meaning in the fact. Presently he added: "Dunstan was the man 
that robbed Silas Marner." 
The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this surprise and shame, 
for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship with crime as a 
dishonour. 
"O Godfrey!" she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had 
immediately reflected that the dishonour must be felt still more keenly 
by her husband. 
"There was the money in the pit," he continued—"all the weaver's money. 
Everything's been gathered up, and they're taking the skeleton to the 
Rainbow. But I came back to tell you: there was no hindering it; you 
must know." 
He was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancy would 
have said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but she refrained, 
from an instinctive sense that there was something behind—that Godfrey 
had something else to tell her. Presently he lifted his eyes to her face, and 
kept them fixed on her, as he said— 
"Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God Almighty 
wills it, our secrets are found out. I've lived with a secret on my mind, but 
I'll keep it from you no longer. I wouldn't have you know it by somebody 
else, and not by me—I wouldn't have you find it out after I'm dead. I'll 
tell you now. It's been "I will" and "I won't" with me all my life—I'll make 
sure of myself now." 
Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wife 
met with awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection. 
"Nancy," said Godfrey, slowly, "when I married you, I hid something 
from you—something I ought to have told you. That woman Marner 
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found dead in the snow—Eppie's mother—that wretched woman—was 
my wife: Eppie is my child." 
He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. But Nancy sat quite 
still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. She was pale and 
quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. 
"You'll never think the same of me again," said Godfrey, after a little 
while, with some tremor in his voice. 
She was silent. 
"I oughtn't to have left the child unowned: I oughtn't to have kept it from 
you. But I couldn't bear to give you up, Nancy. I was led away into 
marrying her—I suffered for it." 
Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected that she 
would presently get up and say she would go to her father's. How could 
she have any mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with her 
simple, severe notions? 
But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. There was no 
i

Summary :