Truth was
with them, and wisdom. How, then, could she pretend to any right to live?
Already she had no name; she was less living than a tombstone. For who
was Chloe? Her family might pass the grave of Chloe without weeping,
without moralizing. They had foreseen her ruin, they had foretold it,
they noised it in the waters, and on they sped to the plains, telling the
world of their prophecy, and making what was untold as yet a lighter
thing to do.
The lamps in an irregularly dotted line underneath the hill beckoned her
to her task of appearing as the gayest of them that draw their breath for
the day and have pulses for the morrow.
CHAPTER X
At midnight the great supper party to celebrate the reconciliation of Mr.
Beamish and Duchess Susan broke up, and beneath a soft fair sky the
ladies, with their silvery chatter of gratitude for amusement, caught
Chloe in their arms to kiss her, rendering it natural for their cavaliers
to exclaim that Chloe was blest above mortals. The duchess preferred to
walk.
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