There are way-stations—even terminals. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. I have suffered him to be brought up decently—honestly; because I would make his fall the greater, and deepen the wound I meant to inflict upon his mother.
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