Sylvia told herself with bitter pain, and again the tears sprang to her
eyes, that no one in the wide world really cared for her. Those people
who had been going to Switzerland had thrown her over without a thought.
Anna Wolsky, who had spoken as if she really loved her only a day or two
ago, and who had made that love her excuse for a somewhat impertinent
interference in Sylvia's private affairs, had left Lacville without even
sending her word that she was leaving!
True, she had a new and a delightful friend in Count Paul de Virieu. But
what if Anna had been right? What if Count Paul were a dangerous friend,
or, worse still, only amusing himself at her expense? True, he had taken
her to see his sister; but that, after all, might not mean very much.
Sylvia Bailey went through a very mournful hour. She felt terribly
depressed and unhappy, and at last, though there was still a considerable
time to dinner, she went downstairs and out into the garden with a book.
And then, in a moment, everything was changed. From sad, she became
happy; from mournful and self-pitying, full of exquisite content.
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