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 again into her pillow, and in this denial she confessed, knew she confessed, but still would not admit to herself that she confessed…. Since that day she had not seen Angus and her desire to see him became a gnawing hunger; more than once she was on the point of sending for him, seeking him—but barriers of pride remained strong, unbroken.

This was an attitude which could not persist. Either one is in love or one is not. Love is not a matter of the will, but of the heart, of the emotions. A certain basic common sense resided in Lydia, and this common sense compelled her at last to face matters as matters were. Fact demanded treatment as fact…. And then, with sobbings, with shame, Lydia Canfield admitted to herself that she loved Angus Burke…. She, a Canfield, loved the son of a thief—a man who had been tried for murder!

It was a problem. The fact was there to be dealt with…. She became calmer as she sought to deal with it. It was her misfortune to love where she should not love, she told herself. Her love had gone without her consent, against her will. It could not be helped. It was an intangible thing over which she could exercise no control—but when it came to tangible matters, control was possible. She was mistress of herself. What if she did love? It spelled