Then, in a flash, her mind wandered from herself, and she thought: "I wonder why George didn't tell his mother that we are going to take an apartment?
I wonder why he didn't tell her that mother is coming in June?
When he comes I must ask him." Looking at the clock, she saw that it was after seven, and hurriedly taking the last few stitches, she laid the gown on the bed, bathed her face in cold water, and then, sitting down before her dressing-table, drew the pins from her hair.

In some obscure way she felt herself a different person from the bride who had watched George so ecstatically at the station that morning.

She could not tell how she had altered, and yet she felt perfectly conscious that an alteration had taken place in her soul--that she was not the same Gabriella--that life could never be again exactly as it had been before.

Nothing and yet everything seemed to have happened to her in a day.

Her face, gazing gravely back at her from the mirror, looked young and wistful, the face of one who, like a bird flying suddenly out of darkness against a lamp, is bewildered by the first shock of the light.
When her hair was arranged in the simple way she had always worn it, she slipped her dress over her bare shoulders, and fastened it slowly--for Miss Polly had no patience with "back fastenings"-- while she told herself again that George would not be satisfied.