She knew how awful it was and what desperate efforts were made, what desperate means resorted to, in the concealment of it.

And how difficult and almost impossible it was to cope with it and how it seemed sometimes as if the whole fabric of society and custom combined to draw attention to mere trifles which in the end proved damning evidence.
And it was Miss Robin she was going to--her own Miss Robin who had never known a child of her own age or had a girl friend--who had been cut off from innocent youth and youth's happiness and intimacies.
"It's been one of those poor mad young war weddings," she kept saying to herself, "though no one will believe her.

If she hadn't been so ignorant of life and so lonely! But just as she fell down worshipping that dear little chap in the Gardens because he was the first she'd ever seen--it's only nature that the first beautiful young thing her own age that looked at her with love rising up in him should set it rising in her--where God had surely put it if ever He put love as part of life in any girl creature His hand made.

But Oh! I can _see_ no one will believe her! The world's heart's so wicked.

I know, poor lamb.