CHAPTER IV
BUT why had it been Hester to come with the news? Why not Clive? This question, which had lain latent in Monica’s mind during Hester’s visit, rose to assail her during the long night, as she lay awake and listened to the rain. Such news as that should have been brought by Clive. He had sold the little Chelsea house that she had given him. She had given it to him;—not to Hester. It was their transaction, his and hers; not hers and Hester’s; and it could be only Hester who had made it so; thrusting herself, with her bland assurance, between them.
‘She is straight,’ that phrase of Celia’s returned to her pleadingly while her thoughts burned and brooded on her wound. But was Hester straight? Was there not some surreptitious motive smouldering under the fair appearance of her? She was hounded by the memory of her walking away in the garden below the flat, leading Clive out of her life, her hand stayed on the hem of his coat. Now she was leading him back, a trophy; placing him there, tormentingly near but never to be reached except on Hester’s terms. And Hester
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