She
got up and held the paper nearer to the lamp in the roof,
staying herself against the end of a seat. As she read
she grew paler, and the paper shook in her hand. "One of
the valuable books of the year," "showing grasp of
character and keen dramatic instinct," "a distinctly
original vein," "too slender a plot for perfect symmetry,
but a treatment of situation at once nervous and strong,"
were some of the commonplaces that said themselves over
and again in her mind as she sank back into her place by
the window with the paper lying across her lap.
Her heart beat furiously, her head was in a whirl; she
stared hard, for calmness, into the swift-passing night
outside. Presently she recognized herself to be angry
with an intense still jealous anger that seemed to rise
and consume her in every part of her being. A success--of
course it would be a success if Janet wrote it--she was
not artistic enough to fail. Ah, should Janet's friend
go so far as to say that? She didn't know--she would
think afterward; but Janet was of those who succeed, and
there were more ways than one of deserving success. Janet
was a compromise; she belonged really to the British
public and the class of Academy studies from the nude
which were always draped, just a little.
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