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Page 11
And the night
Which he had longed for came before he knew,
While he thought of to-morrow, came and went,
And the to-morrow broke on him asleep,
And startled him with sunlight.
At the aunt's
There was a fluster and the after-breath
Of household gales still fretting in the air:
Constance had wept; and Ethel's cheeks were hot
And scornful; and, with drooping curves of pain
On her set face, with heavy patient eyes
Of one who waits a better time to weep,
Silent and pallid, Evelyn sat and sewed
As if a life hung on her every stitch:
And the aunt was all a-tremble, with some speech
Quivering upon her lips that would not come;
And every now and then she gave a cough,
Grew red, and puckered up a solemn face,
Then looked at one or other of her girls,
Then coughed again, and changed her mind, and said
The day was very warm - no, she meant cold.
Till Gervase, chafed, resolved to raise the storm
That he might sooner lull it. "For," thought he,
"She plainly thinks she caught me yesterday
Cheating her niece with lying fooleries."
He looked her in the face no whit abashed,
Asked "Where is Lota?"
There was such a hush
As comes in summer when the sky grows close
Against the trees before the first gust bursts
Of the oncoming tempest, and the click
Of Evelyn's needle sounded noisily -
Evelyn who neither paused nor drew long breath,
After a moment's pause, as the others did,
But stitched on faster.
"Lota!" gasped the aunt,
"Are you so shameless?"
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