Perhaps it was all a silly, conceited mistake of
her own--a delusion and one not particularly creditable either to her
intelligence or her modesty.
Damaris shut up the jewel-case. The pearls were entrancing; but somehow
she did not seem to think she cared to look at them any more--just now.
When her breakfast arrived she ate it in a pensive frame of mind. In a
like frame of mind she went through the routine of her toilette. She felt
oddly tired; oddly shy, moreover, of her looking-glass.
Miss Felicia Verity had made a tentative proposal, about a week before,
of joining her niece and her brother upon the Riviera. She reported much
discomfort from rheumatism during the past winter. Her doctor advised a
change of climate. Damaris, while brushing and doing up her hair,
discovered in herself a warm desire for Miss Felicia's company. She
craved for a woman--not to confide in, but to somehow shelter behind. And
Aunt Felicia was so perfect in that way. She took what you gave in a
spirit of gratitude almost pathetic; and never asked for what you didn't
give, never seemed even to, for an instant, imagine there was anything
you withheld from her.
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