I never did." Her next: "Why did I ever think I did?" And
her next: "Why did I ever do this?" She knew with a strange calm
certainty that from this moment she would never be rid of Martin's
presence again. She had maintained for more than a year a wonderful
make-believe of indifference. She had fancied that by, pushing
furiously with both hands one could drive things into the past. But
Fate was cleverer than that. What he wanted to keep he kept for you-
-the weaving of the pattern in the carpet might be your handiwork,
but the final design was settled before ever the carpet was begun.
Not that any of these fine thoughts ever entered Maggie's head. All
that she thought was "I love Martin. I want to go to him. He's ill.
I've got to do my duty about Paul." She settled upon that last
point. She bound her mind around it, fast and secure like thick
cord. She put Mr. Magnus' letter away in the shell-covered box, the
wedding-present from the aunts; in this box were the programme of
the play that she had been to with Martin, the ring with the three
pearls, Martin's few letters, and some petals of the chrysanthemum,
dry and faded, that she had worn on the great day of the matinee.
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