It was as if
she was glad to take him into her confidence and unbend. Within the
pre-natal Amanda an impish Amanda still lingered.
There were aspects of Amanda that it was manifest dear Betty must
never know. . . .
But the real Amanda of that November visit even in her most
unpontifical moods did not quite come up to the imagined Amanda who
had drawn him home across Europe. At times she was extraordinarily
jolly. They had two or three happy walks about the Chexington
woods; that year the golden weather of October had flowed over into
November, and except for a carpet of green and gold under the horse-
chestnuts most of the leaves were still on the trees. Gleams of her
old wanton humour shone on him. And then would come something else,
something like a shadow across the world, something he had quite
forgotten since his idea of heroic love had flooded him, something
that reminded him of those long explanations with Mr. Rathbone-
Sanders that had never been explained, and of the curate in the
doorway of the cottage and his unaccountable tears.
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