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Galbraith himself
had detected this preoccupation, but he would have been staggered had he
known its intensity. He had likened it in his own thoughts, to an effect
that might have been caused by the presence with her of another person
whom he could neither see nor hear. And that, had he believed it
seriously, would have been an almost uncannily correct guess.
The flaming vortex of thoughts, hopes, desires which enveloped her, was
so intense as almost to evoke a sense of the physical presence of the
subject of them--of that big, powerful-minded, clean-souled husband of
hers, who loved her so rapturously, and who had driven her away from him
because that rapture was the only thing he would share with her.
She had been living, since that day of his departure for New York, when
she had felt the last of his strong embraces, a life that fell into two
hemispheres as distinct from each other as tropic night from day. One
half of it had been lighted and made tolerable by the exactions of her
new job.


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