She'd gone over and over again, the probable things that he
would say, the things that she would say in reply, when he did come.
She was prepared for his anger. He was, she felt, entitled to be angry.
But she felt sure she could get him to listen while she told him just
why and how she had done it, and what she had done, and she had a sort
of tremulous confidence that when the story was told, entire, his anger
would be found to have abated, if not altogether to have disappeared.
And afterward, when the shock had worn off, and he had had time to
adjust himself to things, he'd begin to feel a little proud of her. They
could commence--being friends. She'd constructed and let her mind dwell
on almost every conceivable combination of circumstances, except the one
thing that happened.
Only, as the active actual half of her life grew more discouraging,
harder to steer toward any object that seemed worth attaining, her
imaginary life with Rodney lost its grip on fact and reason; became
roseate, romantic, a thinner and more iridescent bubble, readier to
burst and disappear altogether at an ungentle touch.
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