Mrs. Wilson and Wynne had to force a path between
ranks of curious sight-seers in order to make their way to the guarded
pew of the former, which was well up the main aisle. It came to Maurice
suddenly that in his angry mood he was pushing against these worshipers
rudely, and that he was venting upon them a fury which had rather
increased than diminished in his ride to the church. He was seething
with anger; anger against Mrs. Wilson for having put him in a ludicrous
position, at Berenice for her mockery, at Mrs. Staggchase for her
satire, and at all the frivolous fools who had stood around, grinning
to see him made ridiculous. His hurt vanity throbbed with an ache
intolerable, and as he forced his way between the crowding spectators
he felt a certain ugly joy in thrusting them aside.
He was recalled to self-control by the expression in the face of a girl
whom he pressed back to give Mrs. Wilson passage. She turned to him
with a look of surprise and pain, and to his excited fancy her hair in
the half shadow was like that of Berenice.
"You hurt me!" she exclaimed.
"I beg your pardon," he answered with instant compunction.
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