But she
_knew_ that this was not the end. She never doubted for a moment that it
was merely a beginning, that Seymour Michael was coming back into her
life.
Like a child she tossed and tumbled in her bed, muttering
half-consciously, "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
CHAPTER XXIII
AND THE TIME PASSES SOMEHOW
His hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him.
For two days Mrs. Glynde had been going about the world with a bright red
patch on either cheek; and it would seem that on the third day, namely,
the Sunday, things came to a crisis in her disturbed mind. At morning
service her fervour was something astonishing--the quaver in her voice
was more noticeable in the hymns than ever, and the space devoted to
silent prayer after the blessing was so abnormally long that Stark, the
sexton, had to rattle the keys twice, with all due respect and for the
sake of his Sunday dinner, before she rose from her knees; whereas once
usually sufficed.
It was the devout practice that all the Rectory servants should go to
evening service, while Mrs.
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