Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Maybe others that I do not know about. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. ‘Certainly no one will find it. Some day, when the rewards of literature permit the arduous research required, the Campaign of the Women will find its Carlyle, and the particulars of that marvellous series of exploits by which Miss Brett and her colleagues nagged the whole Western world into the discussion of women’s position become the material for the most delightful and amazing descriptions.
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