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She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. She felt her skills make a belated return. It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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