Sally, yearning in her heart for one more sight of Traill, the putting
to the touch of her last hope, and then crushing out the desire into
an apparent oblivion, was trapped, deceived, outwitted by such
subtle suggestions as that she had been thwarted in her determination
of sacrifice.
At the bottom of Waterloo Place, she hesitated. He had said he would
wait half an hour. She would be back almost immediately if she
returned at once. Her steps took her onwards down Pall Mall, but they
were slower and more measured than before. At the Carlton Restaurant,
she stopped again. She wanted to give him back the bangle herself;
to tell him herself how utterly she knew it was at an end. She could
write, certainly; she could send the little box by post. She had said
she would. But a romance, the only romance she had ever had in her
life, to end through the tepid medium of the post--the letter dropped
in through the black and gaping slit--just the one moment's thrill
that now he must get it! Then, nothing; then, emptiness and the end.
She wanted more than that. She would cry, perhaps, break down when
she saw him put it aside where she could never touch it again.
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