A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. She wanted to live. . Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. . She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves.
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