She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. For a time they were very difficult.
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