Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. There must be ways of getting rid of him. The movement was fatal to her son. Not at all. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. She had never been so happy to vomit. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. Majorities, right or wrong, dare not revolt. It was my destiny to have her.
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