She was his, she belonged to no one else in the world,
she was his utterly. Utterly. Ever so swiftly and gently her hand
brushed for an instant over his; he responded, crooking his little
finger for a moment inside hers. She smiled; she turned round and
looked at the people triumphantly, she felt a deep contented rest in
her heart, rich and full, proud and arrogant, the mother, the lover,
the sister, the child, everything to him she was . . .
People came in, the theatre filled, and a hum of talk arose, then
the orchestra began to tune, and soon music was playing, and Maggie
would have loved to listen but the people must chatter.
When suddenly the lights went down the only thing of which she was
conscious was that Martin's hand had suddenly seized hers roughly,
sharply, and was crushing it, pressing the ring into the flesh so
that it hurt. Her first excited wondering thought then was:
"He doesn't care for me any more only as a friend.--There's the
other now . . ." and a strange shyness, timidity, and triumph
overwhelmed her so that her eyes were full of tears and her body
trembling.
But as the play continued she must listen.
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