He turned to his desk with an expression which was intended, perhaps, to denote that he was a very busy man, and that he himself had his troubles. Then the shadow of a frown crept over his usually well-controlled features. But still the woman with the ribbons of papers did not move.
He called one of his assistants.
"Henry, show Miss Vaughan to her carriage, please—Miss Vaughan, this lady here, Henry. I think she is not well!"
She had dreamed her dream.
CHAPTER XXIX
DESINAT IN PISCEM, MULIER FORMOSA SUPERNE
... A life
By love's black frost all blighted and foregone,
Glad that it suffers not; with sorrow in
Its poor thin laughter sadder far than tears.
Ah, more than pain in that abysmal breast
Each broken, dark, irresolute delight!
John Hartley, "Street Dust."
To wear love's brand you must bear love's burn.—"The Silver Poppy."