She viewed the woman in the glass impersonally, as if it had been a
stranger's face looking at her. That vivid creature couldn't be
Nancy Simms, not quite three years ago the Baxter slavey, the same
Nancy that Peter Champneys had shrunk from with aversion, and that
Glenn had repudiated to-night!
"Yes,--it's me," she murmured. "But I ain't--I mean I am not really
ugly any more. I'm--I don't know just _what_ I am--or whether I
ought to like or hate me--" But even while she shook her head, the
face in the glass changed; the mouth drooped, the color faded, the
light in the eyes went out. "But whatever I am, I'm not enough to
make anybody keep on loving me." Then, because she was just a girl,
and a very bewildered, sad, and undisciplined girl, she put her red
head down on her dressing-table and wept despairingly.
The next morning Mr. Champneys explained to the concerned and
regretful Mrs. MacGregor that Mr. Mitchell had been called away
suddenly, last night, and didn't think he would be able to return.
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