Then the old
Maggie had come to her rescue, the old Maggie who bade her make the
best of her conditions whatever they might be, who told her there
was humour in everything, hope always, courage everywhere, and that
in her own inviolable soul lay her strength, that no one could
defeat her did she not defeat herself.
Now, most strangely, in that early light, she felt a great
tenderness for him, the tenderness of the mother for the child. She
put out her hand, touched his shoulder, stroked it with her hand,
laid her head against it. He, murmuring in his sleep, turned towards
her, put his arm around her and so, in the shadow of his heart, she
fell into deep, dreamless slumber.
At breakfast that morning she felt with him a strange shyness and
confusion. She had never been shy with him before. At the very first
she had been completely at her ease; that had been one of his
greatest attractions for her. But now she realised that she would be
for a whole fortnight alone with him, that she did not know him in
the least, and that he himself was strangely embarrassed by his own
discoveries that he was making.
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