Marty, Marty in broadcloth, and she had put it in his hands.

She had turned him away from her room and lost him.

There's not one thing that any of us can do or say that doesn't react on some one else to hurt or bless.
With a little gasp, the sense of all this going home to her, Tootles scrambled awkwardly off the settee, dropping a book and a handkerchief.
This, then, this beautiful girl who belonged to a quarter of life of which she had sometimes met the men but never the women, was Martin's wife--the wife of the man whom she loved to adoration.
"Why, then, you're--you're Mrs.Gray," she stammered, her impertinence gone, her hail-fellow-well-met manner blown like a bubble.
Catching sight of the message, "We count it death to falter not to die," Joan summoned her pride, put up her chin and gave a curious little bow.

"Forgive me," she said, "I'm trespassing," and not daring to look at Marty, turned and went out.

She heard him call her name, saw his sturdy shadow fall across the yellow patch, choked back a sob, started running, and stumbled away and away, with the blood from her heart bespattering the grasses and the wild flowers, and the fairies whimpering at her heels,--and, at last, climbing back into the room that knew and loved and understood, threw herself down on its bosom in a great agony of grief.
"Be kind to me, old room, be kind to me.