She read them with a beating heart in the unconscious apprehension
of some revelation of improvement. She was quite unaware of it, but she
entertained toward the Simpsons an attitude of misgiving in this regard.
Hilda went on about her business. As usual, her business was important
and imperative; nothing was lightened for her this last day. She drove
about from place to place in the hot, slatternly city, putting more than
her usual vigour and directness into all she did. It seemed to her that
the sunlight burning on the tiles, pouring through the crowded streets,
had more than ever a vivid note; and so much spoke to her, came to her,
from the profuse and ingenuous life which streamed about her, that she
leaned a little forward to meet it with happy eyes and tender lips that
said, "I know. I see." She was living for the moment which should exhale
itself somewhere about midnight, after the lights had gone out on her
last appearance, living for it as a Carmelite might live for the climax
of her veil and her vows if it were conceivable that beyond the cell and
the grating she saw the movement and the colour and the passion of a
wider life. All Hilda's splendid vitality went into her intention, of
which she was altogether mistress, riding it and reining it in a
straight course through the encumbered hours.
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