"Come, now let us send off this letter," she said.
When it was ready she ran down with it, herself, to the red pillar-box,
opposite the shop-door. "That matter is done with," she said as the letter
disappeared within the box, and she turned to re-enter. The light from the
street lamp fell on her mother's name, black letters on a white ground,
above the shop door. "Lydia Day, licensed to sell tobacco and snuff." "And
all that is nearly done with," she added, "and whatever happens I am not
sorry."
She felt curiously strong and capable; competent to work her way, afraid
of no difficulties. "It is more than time I should grow up, and at last, I
have done so," she said to herself. She went through the badly-lit little
passage, and up the steep narrow stairs, with shoulders braced and head
up. It was the having made, that day, a decision every worldly-wise person
would have condemned, but that she felt in every fibre of her being to be
a right one, which had given her that feeling of confidence in herself she
had hitherto lacked. She had chosen between comfort, luxury, the approval
and adulation of the world, with Reggie Forcus, and the hard up-hill fight
for bare existence, with liberty and her own self-respect; and choosing,
as she knew, well, she had felt herself to have grown in mental and
spiritual stature.
Pages:
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363