She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. She knew that the stairs they had to negotiate to the vestry were extremely narrow, and she had made her plans. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. One day they were at tea in the laboratory and a discussion sprang up about the question of women’s suffrage. “And of course you are my niece just as Annabel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. Then instinct took over. She woke up choking and belching water. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. “Only so many men neglect their duties. ] THE RAGGED EDGE BY HAROLD MACGRATH AUTHOR OF DRUMS OF JEOPARDY, ETC.
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