She
glanced back at her letter and sat looking at the closing lines
and the signature.
"Much good that will do her," she commented. "When a woman loves
a man and loves him with all her heart, as Marian loved John, and
when she loses him, not because she has done a single unworthy
thing herself, but because he is so rubber spined that he will
let another woman successfully intrigue him, a lot of comfort she
is going to get from the love of a schoolgirl!"
Linda's eyes strayed to the window again, and traveled down to
the city and up the coast, all the way to San Francisco, and out
of the thousands of homes there they pictured a small, neat room,
full of Marian's belongings, and Marian herself bending over a
worktable, absorbed in the final draft of her precious plans.
Linda could see Marian as plainly as she ever had seen her, but
she let her imagination run, and she fancied that when Marian was
among strangers and where no one knew of John Gilman's defection,
that hers might be a very heavy heart, that hers might be a very
sad face. Then she went to planning. She had been desolate,
heart hungry, and isolated herself. First she had endured, then
she had fought; the dawn of a new life was breaking over her
hill. She had found work she was eager to do. She could put the
best of her brain, the skill of her fingers, the creative impulse
of her heart, into it.
She was almost sure that she had found a friend. She had a
feeling that when the coming Saturday had been lived Donald
Whiting would be her friend.
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