"I'll
never--never write him again," she averred with stiff lips, and next moment
could have laughed in mockery at the bitter truth. If she had ever had any
courage, Glenn's letter had destroyed it. But had it not been a kind of
selfish, false courage, roused to hide her hurt, to save her own future?
Courage should have a thought of others. Yet shamed one moment at the
consciousness she would write Glenn again and again, and exultant the next
with the clamouring love, she seemed to have climbed beyond the self that
had striven to forget. She would remember and think though she died of
longing.
Carley, like a drowning woman, caught at straws. What a relief and joy to
give up that endless nagging at her mind! For months she had kept
ceaselessly active, by associations which were of no help to her and which
did not make her happy, in her determination to forget. Suddenly then she
gave up to remembrance. She would cease trying to get over her love for
Glenn, and think of him and dream about him as much as memory dictated.
This must constitute the only happiness she could have.
The change from strife to surrender was so novel and sweet that for days
she felt renewed. It was augmented by her visits to the hospital in Bedford
Park.
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