But with this sudden lighting up of hope, which took place within her
when she made John Galbraith that astonishing offer and he accepted it,
she flung the closed door wide and called her husband back into her
thoughts--greeted the image of him passionately, in an almost palpable
embrace. This hard thing that she was going to do, which had, to
common-sense calculation, so many chances of disaster in it--this thing
that meant sleepless nights, and feverishly active days, was an
expression simply of her love for him; a sacrificial offering to be laid
before the shrine of him in her heart. Well, it was no wonder then that
to John Galbraith she had seemed preoccupied and far away, nor that amid
the surging thoughts and memories of her lover, coming in like a
returning tide, she should have been deaf to a meaning in the director's
tones that any one of the stupid little flutterers in the chorus would
instantly have understood.
A man with a volcanic incandescence within him such as was now afire in
Rose, is utterly useless until it subsides--totally incapable, at least,
of any sort of creative or imaginative work.
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