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Pembroke - A Novel by Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman
page 29 of 327 (08%)
"I know it," Sylvia had replied, with a quick shrinking, as if from a
blow.

The passing years, as they passed for her, stung her like swarming
bees, with bitter humiliation; but never for herself, only for
Richard. Nobody knew how painfully she counted the years, how she
would fain have held time back with her thin hands, how futilely and
pitifully she set her loving heart against it, and not for herself
and her own vanity, but for the sake of her lover. She had come, in
the singleness of her heart, to regard herself in the light of a
species of coin to be expended wholly for the happiness and interest
of one man. Any depreciation in its value was of account only as it
affected him.

Sylvia Crane, sitting in the meeting-house of a Sunday, used to watch
the young girls coming in, as radiant and flawless as new flowers, in
their Sunday bests, with a sort of admiring envy, which could do them
no harm, but which tore her own heart.

When she should have been contrasting the wickedness of her soul with
the grace of the Divine Model, she was contrasting her fading face
with the youthful bloom of the young girls. "He'd ought to marry one
of them," she thought; "he'd ought to, by good rights." It never
occurred to Sylvia that Richard also was growing older, and that he
was, moreover, a few years older than she. She thought of him as an
immortal youth; his face was the same to her as when she had first
seen it.

When it came before a subtler vision than her bodily one, there in
the darkness and loneliness of this last Sunday night, it wore the
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