This, I say, had become the rule of
three days in the week, more or less. And it's not to be supposed that so
clear-sighted a young lady could see so much of so keen-sighted a man
without a good deal of self-communing.
Her capacity for silent meditation, during which she would sit before her
fire, gazing far, smiling at her thoughts, into the glowing coals, had
never left her. But there was a slight difference to be noted. She could
not think of Ingram--the past, the present, or any future Ingram--without
contraction of the brows. Smooth-browed she thought of Morosine.
He interested her greatly; she was conscious of anxiety to learn his
opinion, of a wave of warm feeling when she awaited it. She credited him
with insight, had a notion, for instance, that she could discuss her own
affairs without any preliminary apology. He took so much for granted--
surely he would take her youth into full account. She had never said to
him a word of herself as yet; but there had been times when she had felt
near it--had seen herself rowing a boat, as it were, within range of a
weir, been conscious of effort to keep a straight course, and of the
fruitlessness of effort. There had been moments when she had been tempted
to throw down her oars with a sigh--by no means of despair.
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