The first chapter of her life was, at that moment's
laying of her hand on Martin's forehead, closed. The love for him
that filled her so utterly was in great part maternal. It was to be
her destiny to know the deep tranquil emotions of life rather than
the passionate and transient. She was perhaps the more blessed in
that.
Even now, at the very instant of her triumph, she deceived herself
in nothing. There were many difficulties ahead for her. She had
still to deal with Paul: Martin was not a perfect character, nor
would he suddenly become one. Above all that strange sense of being
a captive in a world that did not understand her, some one curious
and odd and alien--that would not desert her. That also was true of
Martin. It was true--strangely true--of so many of the people she
had known--of the aunts, Uncle Mathew, Mr. Magnus, of Paul and of
Grace, of Mr. Toms, and even perhaps of Thurston and Amy Warlock--
all captives in a strange country, trying to find the escape, each
in his or her own fashion, back to the land of their birth.
But the land was there. Just as the lion, whose roar very faintly
she could hear through the thick walls, remembered in his cage the
jungles and mountains of his happiness, so was she aware of hers.
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