The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. The one I have is a duplicate. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No.
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