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Updated: June 11, 2025
Of course, he will always love her after a fashion. He might even compare you with her and find her your superior in every way except as a woman. We may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the greater part of the time, a man is a man. And you are no friend for a man. Pensée Fitz Rewes might answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she has two children, she has a gentle, maternal air.
Pensée caught a glimpse of her white, agonised countenance as she rushed past them, moaning, to her own room. "This is dreadful," said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed "dreadful!" "It is indeed," replied Lady Fitz Rewes gravely. "I suppose...." She wanted to say that she hoped the Marshire-de Treverell alliance was still undecided.
Pensée Fitz Rewes came first very graceful in lavender silk, and accompanied by her little boy, who showed by an unconscious anxiety of expression that he felt instinctively his mother's air of contentment was assumed. Then Baron Zeuill, with Brigit on his arm, followed. The Baron looked grave too grave for the happy circumstances.
Lady Fitz Rewes had too delicate a face to contain any expression of the alarm and horror she felt at this statement. She frowned, bit her lips, and sank back in her chair. What stroke of fate, she wondered, had overtaken the poor girl? Was she sane? Was she herself?
Sara possessed for Pensée Fitz Rewes the fascination of a desperate nature for a meek one. The audacity, brilliancy, and recklessness of the younger woman at once stimulated and established the other's gentle piety. They talked for fifteen minutes about the autumn visits they had paid, the visits they would have to pay, and the visits which nothing in the world would induce them to pay.
"If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay," said Pensée. "That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannot leave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here for a little while." Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating dinner.
The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we commit in judging others perhaps in judging ourselves." "The carriage is at the door," whispered Pensée, touching Brigit's arm. "Shall we go?" Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel near Covent Garden. Brigit sat with closed eyes and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lost in thought, stared out of the window.
"The heroic are plotted against by evil spirits, comforted by good ones, but in no way constrained," observed the Ambassador; "let us then support Mr. Orange, and wait for his own decision. I doubt whether we could drive him to Lady Fitz Rewes." "To whom else?" asked Sara, fastening some flowers in her belt.
I wish to be charitable. I, therefore, say what I hardly think. Pensée Fitz Rewes is an innocent little fool. She judges all women by herself. You, Princess, are an angel of the world. Your verdict, quickly." The Princess paused before she attempted any reply. Then she fixed her deep, grey eyes on Sarah's excited face. "I like her," she said, slowly. "Is that all?"
And a great piece of folly into the bargain. It is selling the bear's skin before you have killed the bear." Lady Fitz Rewes glanced piteously at the three men and wrung her hands. "Don't you see," she exclaimed, "don't you see that if there is the least doubt of Mr. Parflete's death, we ought to go to them. Some one must follow them."
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