"About something that Julian said just now."
"What was it?" Lillian queried, still bewildered in a sort.
The flush deepened on Mrs. Briscoe's cheek, her eyes were full of light,
her voice chimed with a sort of secret joy.
"I will not tell you!" she cried, and, still smiling, she floated down
the hall, her book in her hand.
Lillian stood motionless in amaze. Something that Julian Bayne had said
to work this metamorphosis! Something that she must not hear, must not
know! The look in her friend's eyes, the tone of her voice, stayed with
Lillian in every moment of surcease of torment for the child's rescue,
and worked their own mission of distress. Had she thought indeed that she
could hold Julian Bayne's heart through all vicissitudes of weal and woe,
of time and change? She had of her own free choice thrown it away once as
a thing of no worth. She had never justified her course, or thought it
could be deemed admirable as an exponent of her character. And here she
was constantly contrasted with a woman who had no fault, no foible, who
was generous, whole-souled, splendid, and beautiful, already with a
strong hold on his affections, close to him, the widow of his cousin who
was always the friend of his heart.
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