By the
time their talk was over he felt that he too hated Elizabeth
Bremerton, and that it was horrid to have to leave Pamela with her.
When they said good-night Pamela threw herself on her bed face
downwards, more wretched than she had ever been--wretched because
Desmond was going, and might be killed, wretched, too, because her
conscience told her that she had spoilt his last evening, and made
him exceedingly unhappy, by a lot of exaggerated complaints. She was
degenerating--she knew it. 'I am a little beast, compared to what I
was when I left school,' she confessed to herself with tears, and
did not know how to get rid of this fiery plague that was eating at
her heart. She seemed to look back to a time--only yesterday!--when
poetry and high ideals, friendships and religion filled her mind;
and now nothing--nothing!--was of any importance, but the look, the
voice, the touch of a man.
The next day, Desmond's last day at home, for he was due in London
by the evening, was gloomy and embarrassed for all concerned.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305