She never even got so far as to place two sides of a
question upon an equal footing in her mind. All her questions had but one
side. She was not thinking of Arthur when she went to her room. She was
not thinking of him when she lay staring at the daylight, which had crept
up into the sky before she closed her eyes.
She tossed and turned and moaned aloud with a childish impatience. Her
mind could find no rest; it could not throw off the deadly knowledge that
Seymour Michael had come back into her life. And somehow she was no
longer Anna Agar, but Anna Hethbridge. She was no longer the fond mother
whose whole world was filled by thoughts of her son--a miserable,
thoughtless, haphazard world it was--but again she was the wronged woman,
moved by the one great passion that had stirred her sordid soul, a
fearsome hatred for Seymour Michael.
She was not an analytical woman; she had never thought about her own
thoughts; she was as superficial as human nature can well be. That is to
say, she was little more than an animal with the gift of speech, added to
one or two small items of knowledge which divide men from beasts.
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