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CHAPTER XI
The weather, for this time of year, was unusually bright in Paris.
Each morning glistened with hoar-frost; by noon the sky shone blue
over clean, dry streets, and gardens which made a season for
themselves, leafless, yet defiant of winter's melancholy. Lilian saw
it all with the eyes of a stranger, and often was able to forget her
anxiety in the joy of wonderful, new impressions.
One afternoon she was resting in the room at the hotel, whilst
Quarrier went about the town on some business or other. A long
morning at the Louvre had tired her, and her spirits drooped. In
imagination she went back to the days of silence and solitude in
London; the memory affected her with something of homesickness, a
wish that the past could be restored. The little house by Clapham
Common had grown dear to her; in its shelter she had shed many
tears, but also had known much happiness: that sense of security
which was now lost, the hope that there she might live always,
hidden from the world's inquisitive gaze, justified to her own
conscience by love and calm. What now was before her? Not only the
elaborate deceit, the perpetual risk, weighed upon her heart; she
was summoned to a position such as she had never foreseen, for which
she had received no training. When Denzil revealed to her his real
standing in the world, spoke laughingly of the wealth he had
inherited, and of his political ambitions, her courage failed before
the prospect.
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