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Updated: May 17, 2025
And the impulse which had bade her leave Storran so abruptly was born of the one-time resolution she had made to become the sort of woman Michael would wish his wife to be. She felt oddly perturbed when at last she reached the seclusion of her chintzy bedroom underneath the sloping roof. A vague sense of shame assailed her.
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.
He regarded her with unqualified reproach. "Won't you even ask me to tea?" he said plaintively. "Certainly not," Magda was beginning. But precisely as she spoke June Storran, looking more herself again after her short sleep, came towards them from the house. Her face brightened as she caught sight of Davilof.
There were heaps and heaps of ponies some of them wild, unbroken colts which had been brought straight off the Moor. They were rearing and plunging all over the place. I loved them! By the way, I'm gong to learn riding, Gillyflower. Mr. Storran has offered to teach me. He says he has a nice quiet mare I could start on." A small frown puckered Gillian's brows. "Do you think Mrs.
The implacable ropes of steel held her in bondage. "Michael . . . can't you forgive me?" Her voice wavered and broke as she realised the utter futility of her question. Between them, now and always, there must lie the young, dead body of June Storran. "Forgive you?" Michael's voice was harsh with an immeasurable bitterness. "Good God! What are you made of that you can even ask me?
Following upon this incident the atmosphere seemed to become all at once constrained and difficult. June sat very silent, her eyes holding that expression of pain and bewilderment which was growing habitual to them, while Storran hurried through his meal in the shortest possible time.
Her breath, quickened by the exertion of the dance, came unevenly between her lips as she smiled at him. "Do you still want me to go away, Dan Storran?" There was a note of half-amused, half-triumphant mockery in her voice. The last bonds that held him snapped suddenly: "Yes!" he cried hoarsely. "Yes, I do. To go away with me!"
I don't seem to have feelings, like other women. It doesn't matter to me, really, a bit that I've what was it you said? smashed up your life. I don't know that it would have mattered much if you had strangled me." She paused, then stepped towards him. "Now you know the truth. Do you still want to kill me, Dan Storran! . . . Or may I go?" He swung aside from her. "Go!" he muttered sullenly.
The recollection of the summer she had spent at Stockleigh rushed over her accusingly and she realised that actually she had come between Dan Storran and his wife very much as the Circe woman of Michael's story had come between some other husband and wife. A deep compassion for that unknown woman surged up within her. Surely her burden of remorse must be almost more than she could endure!
And as a consequence of such well-directed incredulity, Storran accompanied Gillian to Dover and thence to Calais. They had a good crossing sun up and blue sky.
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