They never had a visitor to
stay now--they simply couldn't afford it--and she hated the thought of
Godfrey, himself now so unnaturally prosperous, coming back to such an
altered state of things.
Besides, that was not all. Betty covered her face with her hands, and
slow, bitter, reluctant tears began to ooze through her fingers. She had
tried not to think of Godfrey and of his coming, these last two or three
days. She had put the knowledge of what was going to happen from her,
with a kind of hard, defiant determination. But now she was sorry--sorry,
that she had not taken her step-mother's advice, and gone away for a long
week-end. Betty Tosswill felt like a man who, having suffered intolerably
from a wound which has at last healed, learns with sick apprehension that
his wound is to be torn open.
Although not even Janet, her one real close friend and confidant, was
aware of it, Godfrey had not been the only man in Betty's life. There had
been two men, out in France, who had loved her, and lost no time in
telling her so. One had been killed; the other still wrote to her at
intervals, begging her earnestly, pathetically, to marry him, and
sometimes she half thought she would.
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