She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant,
irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt. She detected a glance of
frigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the other
occupants of the compartment. It amazed her. Never had she seen her father
in such an alien light. He bent forward and addressed to her some
commonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply. Her views of conduct, of
character, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change. Having
justified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, she
judged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriously
attained. She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday. Her old self
seemed an object of compassion. She felt an unspeakable happiness, and at
the same time an encroaching fear.
The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London looming
on either hand it became a torment, an anguish. Small-folded, crushed
within her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscription
seemed to burn her. Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend. He
smiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement. She knew
his face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manly
beauty.
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