... She was, poor child, supremely confident, and
that not through conceit or vanity, but simply because she was a
fatalist and believed that destiny had brought Lawrence to her feet....
It was the final proof of her youth that she saw the whole universe
working to fulfil her desire.
The other proof of her youth was that she began, for the first time, to
suffer desperately. The most casual mention of Lawrence's name would
make her heart beat furiously, suffocating her, her throat dry, her
cheeks hot, her hands cold. Then, as the minute of his arrival
approached, she would sit as though she were the centre of a leaping
fire that gradually inch by inch was approaching nearer to her, the
flames staring like little eyes on the watch, the heat advancing and
receding in waves like hands. She hoped that no one would notice her
agitation. She talked nonsense to whomsoever was near to her with little
nervous laughs; she seemed to herself to be terribly unreal, with a
fierce hostile creature inside her who took her heart in his hot hands
and pressed it, laughing at her.
And then the misery! That little episode at the circus of which I had
been a witness was only the first of many dreadful ventures.
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