And suddenly Leonora seemed to have become different and she
seemed to have become different in her attitude towards Leonora.
It was as if she, in her frail, white, silken kimono, sat beside her
fire, but upon a throne. It was as if Leonora, in her close dress of
black lace, with the gleaming white shoulders and the coiled
yellow hair that the girl had always considered the most beautiful
thing in the world--it was as if Leonora had become pinched,
shrivelled, blue with cold, shivering, suppliant. Yet Leonora was
commanding her. It was no good commanding her. She was going
on the morrow to her mother who was in Glasgow.
Leonora went on saying that she must stay there to save Edward,
who was dying of love for her. And, proud and happy in the
thought that Edward loved her, and that she loved him, she did not
even listen to what Leonora said. It appeared to her that it was
Leonora's business to save her husband's body; she, Nancy,
possessed his soul--a precious thing that she would shield and
bear away up in her arms--as if Leonora were a hungry dog, trying
to spring up at a lamb that she was carrying. Yes, she felt as if
Edward's love were a precious lamb that she were bearing away
from a cruel and predatory beast.
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