It was the past that was real, the past that she was remembering every moment of the day and night, hugging it close in her heart as if it were some secret no one could share with her. Even Phillida’s pale, frightened face and her, whispered terror of being married seemed somehow insubstantial beside her own memories of Rodney.
That he who was so virile, so endowed with vigour and enthusiasm, should have anything in common with the limp, miserable Phillida was not to be credited. Her half sister had never seemed a very strong personality to Lizbeth, and now she took on a ghost-like air as she lay weeping in the shadows of her curtained bed or knelt beseechingly at her prie-dieu – praying, Lizbeth knew, for deliverance from Rodney.
Even though Lizbeth was aware that her love was hopeless,
