There were no mourners. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. When sentence was passed there wasn't a dry eye in the court. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions.
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