CHAPTER XXVII
It was after seven, on the evening of that same Sunday, that Enid
Crofton, after having spent the whole day in her bedroom, came down to
her pretty, cheerful, little sitting-room.
She had returned from London in an anxious, nervous, strung-up frame of
mind. For the first time in her life she did not know what it was she
really wanted, or rather she was uncertain as to what it would be best
for her to do.
The thought of seeing Jack Tosswill, of having to fence and flirt with
him in her present disturbed state of mind, had been intolerable. That
was the real reason why she had stayed upstairs all to-day. He had called
three times, and the third time he had brought with him a letter even
more passionately loving, while also even more angry and hurt in tone,
than the one which she had received from him the day before.
As she read this second epistle she had told herself, with something like
rage, that it was not her fault that what she had intended should be a
harmless flirtation had caused such havoc. Still, deep in her heart she
was well aware that but for the havoc she had caused, she could never
have confided to him her urgent need of the five hundred pounds which he
had procured with such surprising ease.
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