"What do you think it was, Joe, dear?" asked Sybil, watching her.
"Oh, it was nothing. Perhaps the room was hot, and I was tired."
"I thought you looked tired all the morning," said Sybil, "and just when I
looked at you I thought you were going to faint. You were as pale as
death, and you seemed holding yourself up by the curtains."
"Did I?" said Joe, trying to laugh. "How silly of me! I felt faint for a
moment--that was all. I think I will go home."
"Yes, dear--but stay a few minutes longer and rest yourself. I will order
a carriage--it is still snowing hard." Sybil left the room.
Once alone, Joe threw herself upon the sofa again. She would rather have
died than have told any one, even Sybil Brandon, that it was no sickness
she felt, but only a great and overwhelming disappointment for the man she
loved.
Her love was doubly hers--her very own--in that it was fast locked in her
own heart, beyond the reach of any human being to know. Of all that came
and went about her, and flattered her, and strove for her graces, not one
suspected that she loved a man in their very midst, passionately,
fervently, with all the strength she had.
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