"Great God!" she exclaimed.
And she realized how inadequate that was.
CHAPTER II
For three weeks Janet stayed with her, sleeping with her, arms
tight-locked about her yielding body as they had often slept together
in the days at Kew. With her own hands, she fed her; in the warmth
of her big, generous heart, she nursed her back to life, as you revive
some little bird, starved and cold, in the heat of your two hands.
During the first fortnight, she asked no questions. What had happened
was obvious. She learnt from the people on the second floor in the
office of the railway company that Traill had left his rooms; but
under what circumstances and why, she made no inquiries. Brought face
to face with the exigencies in the lives of others, there is a fund
of common sense to be found in the character of the revolutionary
woman. That Janet Hallard was an artist, now with a studio of sorts
of her own, says nothing for her temperament and less for her art.
She had no conception of the higher life, and to her mind the inner
mysticism was a jumble of confused nonsense--the blind leading the
blind, for whom the ultimate ditch was a bastard theosophy.
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