Women had loved him, and had told him
so; and he had been made happy, and also wretched, by their love. But
he had never taken pride, personally, to himself because they had
loved him. It had been the accident of his life. Now he remembered
chiefly that this woman had called herself his sister, and he was
grateful.
Then he thought of her personal appearance. As yet he had hardly
looked at her, but he felt that she had become old and worn, angular
and hard-visaged. All this had no effect upon his feelings towards
her, but filled him with ineffable regret. When he had first known
her she had been a woman with a noble presence--not soft and feminine
as had been Violet Effingham, but handsome and lustrous, with a
healthy youth. In regard to age he and she were of the same standing.
That he knew well. She had passed her thirty-second birthday, but
that was all. He felt himself to be still a young man, but he could
not think of her as of a young woman.
When he went down she had been listening for his footsteps, and
met him at the door of the room.
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