She wondered, dully,
if she should ever find surcease; if somewhere, on the thorny path
ahead, there might not be some place where she could lay the burden of
her heartache down. Her pride, that had so long sustained her, was
beginning to fail her now. It no longer seemed more vital than life
itself that Allison should not know.
She had the hurt woman's longing for escape, but could think of no
excuse for flight. She knew Aunt Francesca would manage it, in some way,
should she ask, and that she would be annoyed by no troublesome
questions, yet loyalty held her fast, for she knew how lonely the little
old lady would be without her.
Day by day, the tension increased almost to the breaking point. June
filled the garden with rosebuds, but their pale namesake in the big
white house took no heed of them. She no longer concerned herself about
her gowns, but wore white almost constantly, that her pallor might not
show.
The roses broke from their green sheaths, then bloomed, opening their
golden hearts to every wandering bee. The house was full of roses. Aunt
Francesca wore them even on her morning gowns and Isabel made wreaths of
red roses to twine in her dark hair.
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