She found herself yearning for her childhood, found
herself crying for her innocence, for the sweet scent of opening life.
Even as she longed and strained, she knew herself vain. But the temptation
for the semblance of what was gone was strong and took a subtle form. If
she could not have the thing, she would have the thing's name; if she
could not be innocent again, she would ape innocency. Prodigal of Pity as
she has been, she could say to Senhouse's ghost, I am no more worthy of
thee; and from that to being worthy was but a short step. The rest of her
sojourn abroad was preparation for what was to be done on her return home.
Her treasure lay hidden there, in a desk in her room: three portly packets
of letters, tied with ribbon, and labelled "Jack to Me." Stained and
yellow, she now turned over the pages, and inhaled the faint, sweet scent
of them--a scent as of lavender and tears. Her eyes filled, her heart
beat; but she read on and on. Impossible praises! Love beyond reason,
without bounds--immeasurable homage! Did any man ever--save Dante--love a
woman so greatly, set her so high? So presently she was caught up into a
kind of heaven of wonder, and spent a night with the past.
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