Explore "The Turn of the Tide" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was mere sentiment on Pat's part, of course, but she never entered the Moat House without a certain feeling of regret, and perhaps another feeling which was akin to jealousy. Neither had she ever quite forgiven Croot for depriving her, more or less, of the home in which she had been born. Generally she was quite ready to admit the illogical position, but that did not check the pangs she was feeling as she crossed the big cosy panelled hall in the direction of the long drawing-room, where Vera Croot awaited her. Nothing had been changed, the old furniture was there, just as it had been any time the last three centuries, and but for the absence of the family portraits, the old impression remained intact. But it was only for a moment, and then Pat was herself again.
Before the big open grate, with its fire of logs, a figure was seated, a slender figure in white, with fair hair and a pair of engaging blue eyes. Vera was a pocket Venus in her way, very small and fragile, and yet not lacking sufficiency of courage, and an ardent sportswoman. For she was proficient at most games, though she hardly looked it as she sat there in perfect harmony with her surroundings, a study in lace and shimmering pearls.