She was going to make her parents and sisters happy;
she was going through with her bargain; but there was no need to tell them
any more about it. In her hard mood she told herself that that was the
only wear. If she should be wept over, she might well recant. When the
fatal word was once spoken, she would write to her mother--that was all
that she could do. For the same reason--that she dreaded a tender moment--
she did not go to church with her griefs. The Gods there were too human--
the Man of Sorrows, the Mother with the swords in her bosom. It was
Destiny that had her by the heel. As ye sow, ye shall reap. Vaster gods,
heartless, blind, immortal shapes, figuring the everlasting hills, were
her need. She was going to her fate, because the Fates called her. There's
no war with them.
There had been one who would have had it all out of her in a trice. But he
was remote, a part of her childhood. She hardly called him to mind at this
hour. It was dangerous work to think of him, she knew--and her old
fortitude stood by her, which said, Turn your mind resolutely away from
that which may influence your judgment. Senhouse was not a stoic; he was
an epicurean, she now considered.
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