Explore "Forget-me-not" by Marjorie Bowen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Mademoiselle Debelleyme packed the neat fine clothes, the pretty trifles into which she had put her last sou, filled with a rage that made her feel physically sick.
Rage chiefly against the man; she had exerted herself to serve, to please him, she had really toiled to carry out his wishes, he had professed himself grateful and then he had abandoned her, with contemptible weakness, to the stupid, senseless spite of his intolerable wife. His image fused with that of Robert Morrison, that other man who had betrayed her, and such loathing shook her that she had to lean on the edge of the trunk, her cold hands pressed to her smarting eyes.