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 conduct was his, of whom she had not expected it, it was magnified in her eyes, made to appear more remarkable, finer, more admirable.

“Why,” her mind whispered in a sort of agonized flutter for a means of escape, “why couldn’t Angus have been somebody?” Then she took herself to task for asking such a question. What did it matter who he was? What could it be to her? She assured herself the whole discussion was negligible, but while she gave herself this assurance, she knew it was not, never could be negligible again.

Young Malcolm Crane came into the post office while Mrs. Pratt was speaking to Lydia. He walked to her side, tipped his hat, and somewhat cavalierly turned his back upon Mrs. Pratt.

“I see you survived the revels,” he said smiling. “I thought you’d be here. That’s why I came, for I haven’t the least idea I’ll get any mail.”

Lydia was glad to have him there; he formed a bulwark between her and assembled Rainbow, between her and thoughts of Angus Burke. She was confident in Malcolm’s selfishness and in its willingness and ability to exclude anybody else from a thing he wanted himself…. Malcolm Crane was a straw at which she clutched in the current which was sweeping her to disaster.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” she said,