She
sometimes felt with a woman's instinct that under this composed,
commonplace existence another life went on; for, now and then, in
the interest of conversation, or the involuntary yielding to a
confidential impulse, a word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an
unexpected power and passion, a secret unrest, a bitter memory that
would not be ignored.
Only at rare moments did she catch these glimpses, and so brief, so
indistinct, were they that she half believed her own lively fancy
created them. She longed to know more; but "David's trouble" made
him sacred in her eyes from any prying curiosity, and always after
one of these twilight betrayals Christie found him so like his
unromantic self next day, that she laughed and said:
"I never shall outgrow my foolish way of trying to make people other
than they are. Gods are gone, heroes hard to find, and one should be
contented with good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead
prosaic lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening, playing
the flute, and keeping their temper."
She felt the influences of that friendly place at once; but for a
time she wondered at the natural way in which kind things were done,
the protective care extended over her, and the confiding air with
which these people treated her.
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