Explore "The Garden of Resurrection" by E. Temple Thurston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
There is something in common between Bellwattle and Dandy. I cannot easily describe it, but I find a strange resemblance. It lies, I think, in their powers of intuition, for whereas Dandy takes the color of his mood from the subtlest tone of my voice, it is with Bellwattle that she knows my mood before I have so much as uttered a single word.
As I walked up the drive -- a broad shingle walk, so called because it enables Quin's car to come immediately to the front door -- I was thinking of all that had taken place that morning; trying to justify it in my mind with any reasonable scheme of things however remote. To what purpose had I heard that story in the restaurant? With what object had that poor child of ill-fortune been induced to shelter in the very doorway which I must pass? Or, granting that as reasonable enough, why had she spoken to me -- and, speaking, why had she appealed to me for charity? There were many things she might have said, less calculated to catch my sympathy than to ask me for her cab fare home -- things at which I should have hurried by rather than hear. But no -- she had caught the moment's speculation of my mind and, out of my conversation with her, had grown the belief that I was meant to save Clarissa from destruction.