She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. Life is so good. Do you remember what I said when you took me at the Mint four days ago? I told you my turn would come.
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