Meanwhile Thelma stood motionless where he had left her,--she watched
the retreating form of her portly suitor till he had altogether
disappeared,--then she pressed one hand on her bosom, sighed, and
laughed a little. Glancing at the crucifix so lately restored to her,
she touched it with her lips and fastened it to a small silver chain she
wore, and then a shadow swept over her fair face that made it strangely
sad and weary. Her lips quivered pathetically; she shaded her eyes with
her curved fingers as though the sunlight hurt her,--then with faltering
steps she turned away from the warm stretch of garden, brilliant with
blossom, and entered the house. There was a sense of outrage and insult
upon her, and though in her soul she treated Mr. Dyceworthy's
observations with the contempt they deserved, his coarse allusion to Sir
Philip Errington had wounded her more than she cared to admit to
herself. Once in the quiet sitting-room, she threw herself on her knees
by her father's arm-chair, and laying her proud little golden head down
on her folded arms, she broke into a passion of silent tears.
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