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LARGER IMAGE
STELLA MARIS
BY WILLIAM J. LOCKE.
Author of “The Beloved Vagabond,” “The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne,” “Septimus,” “The Glory of Clementina,” etc.
CHAPTER XXIV
ALTHOUGH Stella had been in London for a day or two, the morning of the funeral was the first time that John had seen her since the riotous June day when he had waved farewell to the train carrying her back to Southcliff. He had gone to the front gate to meet her in his ill-fitting, outgrown frock-coat, sticking-plaster still hiding the wounds on his scalp, and his heavy face white and drawn. She, in her black dress, looked a startling lily enveloped by night; her great eyes had softened from diamond into starshine. Behind her came the old people, attendant ghosts. John folded her hand in his.
“Stella dear, how good of you to come!”
She said in a low voice:
“It is to ask forgiveness from you and her.”
He bowed over her hand. She passed into the house where Miss Lindon received her.