Ah,' breathed Angela, standing at the window in her night-gown. Pain was
in her voice. She leant her head out. The mist was cleft as if her voice
parted it. She had been talking,
Cheap Newport 100s, while the others played,
Wholesale Newport Cigarettes, to Alice Avery,
Wholesale Newport Cigarettes,
about Bamborough Castle; the colour of the sands at evening; upon which
Alice said she would write and settle the day, in August, and stooping,
kissed her, at least touched her head with her hand, and Angela,
positively unable to sit still, like one possessed of a wind-lashed sea
in her heart, roamed up and down the room (the witness of such a scene)
throwing her arms out to relieve this excitement, this astonishment at
the incredible stooping of the miraculous tree with the golden fruit at
its summit--hadn't it dropped into her arms? She held it glowing to her
breast, a thing not to be touched, thought of, or spoken about, but left
to glow there. And then, slowly putting there her stockings, there her
slippers, folding her petticoat neatly on top, Angela, her other name
being Williams, realised--how could she express it?--that after the dark
churning of myriad ages here was light at the end of the tunnel; life;
the world. Beneath her it lay--all good; all lovable. Such was her
discovery.