His action--the taking out of the watch--reminded Hermione of the
time. She looked at her watch. It was half-past two. On the island
they lunched at half-past twelve. Gaspare must have been waiting for
hours. What did it matter?
She made another determined effort and went down the remaining steps
to the beach.
Gaspare should not know that she knew. She was resolved upon that,
concentrated upon that. Continually she saw in front of her the
pouting mouth, the white teeth of the boy who had laughed at her in
the street. There should be no more crying, no more visible despair.
No one should see any difference in her. All the time that she had
been sitting still in the sun upon the bank she had been fiercely
schooling herself in an act new to her--the act of deception. She had
not faced the truth that to-day she knew. She had not faced the ruin
that its knowledge had made of all that had been sacred and lovely in
her life. She had fastened her whole force fanatically upon that one
idea, that one decision and the effort that was the corollary of it.
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