Then, little by
little, she began to relive, with a dreadful poignancy, each separate
stage of her poor romance. Foolish things she had said came back to her,
gay answers Harney had made, his first kiss in the darkness between
the fireworks, their choosing the blue brooch together, the way he had
teased her about the letters she had dropped in her flight from the
evangelist. All these memories, and a thousand others, hummed through
her brain till his nearness grew so vivid that she felt his fingers in
her hair, and his warm breath on her cheek as he bent her head back like
a flower. These things were hers; they had passed into her blood, and
become a part of her, they were building the child in her womb; it was
impossible to tear asunder strands of life so interwoven.
The conviction gradually strengthened her, and she began to form in her
mind the first words of the letter she meant to write to Harney. She
wanted to write it at once, and with feverish hands she began to rummage
in her drawer for a sheet of letter paper.
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