A shadow was on the page; she looked up. Itwas Augustus Carmichael shuffling past, precisely now, at the very moment when it was painfulto be reminded of the inadequacy of humanrelationships, that the most perfect was flawed,and could not bear the examination which, lovingher husband, with her instinct for truth, sheturned upon it; when it was painful to feel herselfconvicted of unworthiness, and impeded in herproper function by these lies, these exaggerations,

it was at this moment when she was frettedthus ignobly in the wake of her exaltation, thatMr. Carmichael shufiled past, in his yellowslippers, and some demon in her made it necessaryfor her to call out, as he passed,‘ Going indoors, Mr. Carmichael?

He said nothing. He took opium. Thechildren said he had stained his beard yellowwith it. Perhaps. What was obvious to herwas that the poor man was unhappy, came tothem every year as an escape; and yet every year,she felt the same thing; he did not trust her.She said, “ I am going to the town. Shall I getyou stamps, paper, tobacco? ” and she felt himwince. He did not trust her. It was his wife’s66

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