A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. ” Sir John, frankly oblivious of the possibility of passers-by, took her into his arms and kissed her. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Don’t imagine that. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. “I do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you. Jonathan, however, still lingered.
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