And then, still aimlessly, she went up to her studio. She
sat down on the floor, leaning her head against the couch. Just then she
looked like a very tired, disappointed child.
And it was with something of a child's simplicity she saw things
then. Was it right to treat Karl that way--Karl who was so great and
good--could do such big things? Was it fair or right that Karl should be
unhappy--Karl who did so much for other people, and who had all this
sweetness and tenderness with the greatness?
What could she do for Karl? She loved him enough to lay down her life for
him. Then was there not some way she could use her life to make things
better for him?
And so she sat there, her thoughts brooding over him, too tired for
anything but very simple thinking, too worn for passion, but filled with
the sadness of a grieving child. It was after she had been looking
straight at it for a long time that she realised she Was looking at a
picture on her easel.
Dimly, uncaringly, she knew what the picture was.
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