That was one of the things which seemed wrong with modern life. She thrust
the thought from her with passionate scorn. If poor, broken, ruined Glenn
Kilbourne could cling to an ideal and fight for it, could not she, who had
all the world esteemed worth while, be woman enough to do the same? The
direction of her thought seemed to have changed. She had been ready for
rebellion. Three months of the old life had shown her that for her it was
empty, vain, farcical, without one redeeming feature. The naked truth was
brutal, but it cut clean to wholesome consciousness. Such so-called social
life as she had plunged into deliberately to forget her unhappiness had
failed her utterly. If she had been shallow and frivolous it might have
done otherwise. Stripped of all guise, her actions must have been construed
by a penetrating and impartial judge as a mere parading of her decorated
person before a number of males with the purpose of ultimate selection.
"I've got to find some work," she muttered, soberly.
At the moment she heard the postman's whistle outside; and a little later
the servant brought up her mail. The first letter, large, soiled, thick,
bore the postmark Flagstaff, and her address in Glenn Kilbourne's writing.
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