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Updated: May 23, 2025
And in Magda's case she had been already rather keyed up by finding the preceding few days punctuated by unwelcome and unaccustomed happenings. They all dated from the day of the accident which had befallen her in the fog.
"Sit down, Virginie." Lady Arabella nodded kindly to the Frenchwoman. "And pull your chair forward. You'll see nothing back there, and there is plenty of room for us all." "Merci, madame. Madame est bien gentille." Virginie's voice was fervent with ecstatic gratitude as she resumed her seat and waited expectantly for Magda's appearance.
However big a tragedy had occurred in Magda's small world whether it were a crack across the insipid china face of a favourite doll or the death of an adored Persian kitten there was still balm in Gilead if "petite maman" would but dance for her.
That aloofly silent figure could not be her gay, pretty petite maman the one who had played and laughed with her and danced so exquisitely that sometimes Magda's small soul had ached with the sheer beauty and loveliness of it. . . . She met Dr. Lancaster as she came out from the candle-lit room and clutched him convulsively by the hand.
Meanwhile Gillian, whose normal, healthy young mind recoiled from the idea of Magda's self-imposed year of discipline, had secretly resolved upon making a final desperate venture in the hope of straightening out the tangle of her friend's life. She would go herself and see Michael and plead with him.
There was a general move towards the door. "Good-bye" Magda's slim hand lay for a moment in Quarrington's. "I I'm sorry you're going away, Saint Michel." Only Michael heard the last two words, uttered in that trainante, slightly husky voice that held so much of music and appeal. He turned abruptly and made his way out of the room in the wake of Gillian and Lady Arabella.
The trees surrounding the paddock had not yet lost their first fresh green: and the white red-roofed stabling, newly built to accommodate the racing stud, made a vivid high light against the coppices. The three wandered on from one mare and foal to another. Patsy, chewing a straw, offered the opinion that Magda's foal was the best of the lot. Magda belonged to her Ladyship.
The struggle between the Old and the New culminates in Magda's defiant words of the woman grown to conscious independence of thought and action: "...I'll say what I think of you of you and your respectable society. Why should I be worse than you that I must prolong my existence among you by a lie! Why should this gold upon my body, and the lustre which surrounds my name, only increase my infamy?
She felt her heart contract at the quiet decision in Magda's voice, but she pinned her faith on Lady Arabella's ability to hold her, somehow, till she herself had accomplished her errand to Paris. Gillian, dashing headlong into Victoria Station, encountered Storran sauntering leisurely out of it, a newspaper under his arm. "Where are you off to?" he demanded, stopping abruptly.
For the first month or two after Magda's departure Gillian found that she had her hands full in settling up various business and personal matters which had been left with loose ends. She was frankly glad to discover that there were so many matters requiring her attention; otherwise the blank occasioned in her life by Magda's absence would have been almost unendurable.
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