She found herself in a strange confusion of mind. She still saw the small
tear-stained face, the dingy finery, the tormented hair; the story she had
just heard was still sounding in her ears. But what really held her was the
question: "Can I move Edward? What will he say to me?"
And in the stillness of the wood all the incidents of their Sunday together
came back upon her, and she stood breathless and amazed at the change which
had passed over her life. Was it really she, Marcia Coryston, who had been
drawn into that atmosphere of happy and impassioned religion?--drawn with a
hand so gentle yet so irresistible? She had been most tenderly treated by
them all, even by that pious martinet, Lord William. And yet, how was it
that the general impression was that for the first time in her life she had
been "dealt with," disciplined, molded, by those who had a much clearer
idea than she herself had of what she was to do and where she was to go?
Out of her mother's company she had been hitherto accustomed to be the
center of her own young world; to find her wishes, opinions, prejudices
eagerly asked for, and deferentially received. And she knew herself
naturally wilful, conceited, keen to have her own way.
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