She was quite relieved, when, only a few minutes later, he went
away having evidently done what he could.
The book she had picked up was a new novel and opened with an
attention-arresting agreeableness, which led her on. In fact it
led her on further and, for a longer time than she was aware of.
It was her way to become wholly absorbed in books when they allured
her; she forgot her surroundings and forgot the passing of time.
This was a new book by a strong man with the gift which makes alive
people, places, things. The ones whose lives had taken possession
of his being in this story were throbbing with vital truth.
She read on and on because, from the first page, she knew them
as actual pulsating human creatures. They looked into her face,
they laughed, she heard their voices, she CARED for every trivial
thing that happened to them--to any of them. If one of them picked
a flower, she saw how he or she held it and its scent was in the
air.
Having been so drawn on into a sort of unconsciousness of all
else, it was inevitable that, when she suddenly became aware that
she did not see her page quite clearly, she should withdraw her
eyes from her page and look about her. As she did so, she started
from her comfortable chair in amazement and some alarm. The room
had become so much darker that it must be getting late. How careless
and silly she had been.
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