Yet for one instant, as she gazed on Molly's girlish freshness, her
youth stirred feebly somewhere in the dregs of her memory, and her eyes
grew deprecating and piteous, as though her soul were saying, "I know I
have missed it, but it isn't my fault---"
The tea-cup trembled in her hand, and her old lips fumbled pathetically
for her bit of toast, while across from her, with only the narrow aisle
of the car between, youth incarnate sat weaving its separate dream of a
universe.
"Yes, two hours earlier," ran Molly's thoughts, "I looked forward to
the meeting with Jonathan, and now, in so short a time, I have grown to
dread it." She tried to think of his pleasant, well-coloured face, of
his whimsical, caressing smile, but in the niche where his image should
have stood, she saw Abel in his country clothes, with his red-brown
throat rising out of his blue shirt and his brilliant eyes under the
dark hair on his forehead. Then suddenly memory played her a ridiculous
trick, for she remembered that his hair grew in a close clipped circular
wave, like the hair which has been bound by a fillet on the head of a
child.
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