Looking ahead of her at the years empty of love, she saw them like a gray road, leaf strewn, wind swept, deserted, and herself creeping through them, as bent, as wrinkled, as disillusioned, as Miss Amelia.

The very image of a life without love was intolerable to her since she had known George--for love meant George, and only George, in her thoughts.

That she could ever be happy again, ever take a natural pleasure in life if she lost him, was unimaginable to her at the instant.

She loved him, she had loved him from the first moment she saw him, she would never, though she lived a million years, love any one else.

It was as absurd to think that she could love again as that a flower could bloom afresh when its petals were withered.