She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. Give me your hand. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. Anyhow, she’s disappeared for some reason or other.
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