CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. ” Lucy coolly marveled as she studied the girl’s face, belly swollen from pregnancy. ” “You will shake hands with me, please,” she begged. “To begin with, I was—I was in the divorce court. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. Then she stood up and looked around the room. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. " Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly.
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