When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
The last traces of resentment vanished when one Saturday in town she met him suddenly face to face. She was passing the Town Library, and exactly as she passed, Owen came out, standing still, as he saw her, on the step. Her pulses beat tumultuously, the colour ran to her cheeks. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, taking his hand, “how could you write to me so coldly, so cruelly? If you knew what I have suffered! And it was not my fault . . .” From the first moment of seeing her, Owen had stood transfixed, silent. Now he pushed back the swing door, and held it wide. “At least come in here,” he said slowly; “don’t let us have a scene in the street.” They stood together in a corner of the great, granite-flagged hall, in cool, quiet contrast with the sunshine and turmoil outside. “You don’t care for