That
young woman had been obviously considering death. She had gone the
length of forming some conception of it. But as to its companion
fatality--love, she, I was certain, had never reflected upon its meaning.
With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl standing
before me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional case. He had
broken away from his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One
aspect of conventions which people who declaim against them lose sight of
is that conventions make both joy and suffering easier to bear in a
becoming manner. But those two were outside all conventions. They would
be as untrammelled in a sense as the first man and the first woman. The
trouble was that I could not imagine anything about Flora de Barral and
the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I could imagine _anything_
which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness and chaos are first
cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which would give
my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I can be
rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent.
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