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Cholmondeley, Mary, 1859-1925

"Red Pottage"

"
She longed to comfort them, to raise them up, to wipe from their hands
and garments the muddy gold stains of the gutter into which they had
fallen, to smooth away the lines of mean care from their faces. But it
had been far simpler in her previous life to share her hard-earned bread
with those who needed it than it was now to share her equally
hard-earned thoughts and slow gleanings of spiritual knowledge, to share
the things which belonged to her peace.
Rachel had not yet wholly recovered from the overwhelming passion of
love which, admitted without fear a few years ago, had devastated the
little city of her heart, as by fire and sword, involving its hospitable
dwellings, its temples, and its palaces in one common ruin. Out of that
desolation she was unconsciously rebuilding her city, but it was still
rather gaunt and bare, the trees had not had time to grow in the
streets, and there was an ugly fortification round it of defaced,
fire-seared stones, which had once stood aloft in minaret and tower, and
which now served only as a defence against all corners.
If Dick had been in trouble, or rather if she had known the troubles he
had been through, and which had made his crooked mouth shut so firmly,
Rachel might possibly have been able to give him something more valuable
than the paper money of her friendship.


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