A little further along by the wall was a great garden; she went in in a
dream; unfamiliar flowers covered unfamiliar bushes with pink and
scarlet snow; a bed of cactus looked like a nightmare of pincushions and
tumours. She sat down beside them, under a low, gloomy leaved eucalyptus
and dreamed. The champagne quality of the air, the sunlight dancing on
the blue water, the great banks of dark green trees on the opposite
shore, with prosperous, happy-looking little red houses nestling among
them brought about an effect of well-being that soft weather and
beautiful surroundings always gave her. She had, all her life, been able
to escape from unhappiness by the mere physical effect of going into the
sunshine and the wind--and then unhappiness and grief seemed impossible,
incredible. Sitting there with half-closed eyes she dreamed of the
future; the disgust of Melbourne had gone; the disillusionment of
Louis's letter had gone, and yet she had very few delusions about what
was going to happen to her.
She wished she had the courage to run away now, to her uncle, or
anywhere away from Louis. And she knew quite well that nothing on earth
would make her leave him. She was beginning to realize, vaguely, what
marriage to him might mean; she had flashing visions of him, drunk,
dirty, foolish and--beastly.
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