She was in the mood to
commit sublime follies and magnificent indiscretions. For the sake of
a drive in that red wheeled gig she would have foresworn Abel at
the altar. For the ecstasy of ironing those surplices she would have
remained a spinster forever.
"That's nice butter, Judy," remarked her lover, and believed that he had
paid her a tribute peculiarly suited to the complexion of her soul.
His gaze followed the drab sweep of her hair, which was combed straight
back from her forehead. Her eyes were looking heavenward while she
worked, yet they caught no beam, no colour from her celestial visions.
Small hectic blotches burned in the centre of her cheeks, and her
thin lips were pressed tightly together as though she bit back a cry.
Sometimes she would remain dumb for an hour in his presence, while her
thoughts soared like birds in the blue region of dreams. She indulged
her imagination in grotesque but intoxicating reveries, in which she
passed nobly and with honour through a series of thrillingly romantic
adventures; and, in fact, only ten minutes before Abel's arrival, she
had beheld herself and the young clergyman undergoing a rapturous, if
slightly unreal, martyrdom, as missionaries to the Chinese.
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