No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. She wished she had not stood up. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless.
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