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 again!" For a moment she sat staring in the mirror before her, for the first time in her life blind to her own image.

Suddenly something deep within her seemed to break. She heard a sob, realized that it came from her own aching throat, and throwing her self on her bed again, she gave herself up to a passion of weeping—not tears such as she had shed before, but tears that seemed to swell and rise from the very depths of her heart, and to find their way to her eyes in hopeless agony.

How long she lay crying she did not know, but at last, realizing that action would soon be required of her, she washed her red and swollen eyes and proceeded to her toilet, which had somehow lost its usual charm. She dispensed with the services of the maid, preferring solitude and the difficulties of hooking her own collar. She selected the plainest tailor gown and most sad-colored blouse, theatrical to the last. As the final hook was fastened, and the last pin adjusted, a timid knock called her attention.

The maid entered, with such an assumed look of unconcern that Philippa was unpleasantly con- 214