She knew how Mag Robertson, and Jean Fleming, and Leezie
Johnstone and all the other "clash-bags," as they were locally called,
would talk, and what stories they would tell.
But her mother would be different--her mother who had always loved
her--crude, primitive love it was, but mother love just the same, and
she felt that she would never be able again to go back and take up her
old life--the old life which seemed so alluring, now that it was left
forever behind.
Thus she tossed and worried, and finally in the gray hours of the
morning her thoughts turned to Robert, who had loved her so well, and
had always been her champion. She saw him looking at her with sad eyes,
eyes which held something of accusation in them and were heavy with
pain--eyes that told he had trusted her, had loved her, and that he had
always hoped she would be his--eyes that told of all they had been to
each other from the earliest remembered days, and which plainly said, as
they looked at her from the foot of her bed: "Mysie! Oh, Mysie! What way
did you do this!"
Unable to bear it any longer, she screamed out in anguish, a scream
which brought good Mrs. Ramsay running to her bedside, to find Mysie
raving in a high fever, her eyes wildly glowing, and her skin all afire.
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