All that remained was to draw a veil as decently as might be over the forgettable humiliation.
The strain of the last fortnight had left its mark on her.

The angles of her face seemed to have become more sharply defined, and her eyes were too brilliant and held a look of restlessness.

But her lips closed as firmly as ever, a courageous scarlet line, denying the power of fate to thrust her under.
The Book of Garth--the book of love--was closed, but there were many other volumes in life's library, and Sara did not propose to go through the probable remaining fifty or sixty years of her existence uselessly bewailing a dead past.

She would face life, gamely, whatever it might bring, and as she had already sustained one of the hardest blows ever likely to befall her, she would probably make a success of it.
But, unquestionably, she would be glad to get away from Monkshaven for a time, to have leisure to readjust her outlook on life, free from the ceaseless reminders that the place held for her.
Here in Monkshaven, it seemed as though Garth's personality informed the very air she breathed.

The great cliff where he had his dwelling frowned at her from across the bay whenever she looked out of her window, his name was constantly on the lips of those who made up her little circle of friends, and every day she was haunted by the fear of meeting him.
Or, worse than all else, should that fear materialize, the torment of the almost hostile relationship which had replaced their former friendship had to be endured.
The invitation to join the Durwards in London had come at an opportune moment, offering, as it did, a way of escape from the embarrassments inseparable from the situation.