This strange immolation of those two poor sprigs, born so early,
gathered and placed before her with such kind intention by her maid,
seemed of all acts the least to be expected of one who hated to hurt
people's feelings, and whose eyes always shone at the sight of flowers.
But in truth the smell of lavender--that scent carried on her husband's
handkerchief and clothes--still affected her so strongly that she could
not bear to be in a room with it. As nothing else did, it brought before
her one, to live with whom had slowly become torture. And freed by that
scent, the whole flood of memory broke in on her. The memory of three
years when her teeth had been set doggedly, on her discovery that she
was chained to unhappiness for life; the memory of the abrupt end, and
of her creeping away to let her scorched nerves recover. Of how during
the first year of this release which was not freedom, she had twice
changed her abode, to get away from her own story--not because she was
ashamed of it, but because it reminded her of wretchedness. Of how she
had then come to Monkland, where the quiet life had slowly given her
elasticity again. And then of her meeting with Miltoun; the unexpected
delight of that companionship; the frank enjoyment of the first
four months. And she remembered all her secret rejoicing, her silent
identification of another life with her own, before she acknowledged or
even suspected love.
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