She drew the paper towards her and took
up the pen, but the next moment she laid it down and gave a slight push
to the paper. As she did so she realised that her hand trembled.
"I must not let myself form the habit of falling into rages--or I
shall not be able to keep still some day, when I ought to do it," she
whispered. "I am in a fury--a fury." And for a moment she covered her
face.
She was a strong girl, but a girl, notwithstanding her powers. What she
suddenly saw was that, as if by one movement of some powerful unseen
hand, Rosy, who had been the centre of all things, had been swept out of
her thought. Her anger at the injustice done to Rosy had been as nothing
before the fire which had flamed in her at the insult flung at the
other. And all that was undue and unbalanced. One might as well look the
thing straightly in the face. Her old child hatred of Nigel Anstruthers
had sprung up again in ten-fold strength. There was, it was true,
something abominable about him, something which made his words more
abominable than they would have been if another man had uttered
them--but, though it was inevitable that his method should rouse one,
where those of one's own blood were concerned, it was not enough to fill
one with raging flame when his malignity was dealing with those who were
almost strangers.
Pages:
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579