She was always saying to herself that life had gone by, and was wasted; for life meant love, and love in her experience had been a flitting folly, an error of crude years, which should, in all justice, have been thrown aside and forgotten, allowing her a second chance.

Too late, now.

Often she lay through the long nights shedding tears of misery.

Too late; her beauty blurred, her heart worn with suffering, often poisoned with bitterness.

Yet there came moments of revolt, when she rose and looked at herself in the mirror, and asked----But for Olga, she would have tried to shape her own destiny.
To-day she could look up at the sunshine.