She read things and had begun to talk about her "right
to be a woman." Emily Heppel-Bevill was only thirty-seven--three
years from forty. Feather had reached the stage of softening in
her disdain of the women in their thirties. She had found herself
admitting that--in these days--there were women of forty who had
not wholly passed beyond the pale into that outer darkness where
there was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. But there
was no denying that this six year old baby, with the dancing step,
gave one--almost hysterically--"to think." Her imagination could
not--never had and never would she have allowed it to--grasp any
belief that she herself could change. A Feather, No! But a creature
of sixteen, eighteen--with eyes that shape--with lashes an inch
long--with yards of hair--standing by one's side in ten years! It
was ghastly!
Coombe, in his cold perfunctory way, climbing the crooked, narrow
stairs, dismissing Andrews--looking over the rooms--dismissing
them, so to speak, and then remaining after the rest had gone
to reveal to her a new abnormal mood--that, in itself alone, was
actually horrible. It was abnormal and yet he had always been more
or less like that in all things. Despite everything--everything--he
had never been in love with her at all. At first she had believed
he was--then she had tried to make him care for her. He had never
failed her, he had done everything in his grand seigneur fashion.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200