Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. A faint anticipation of triumph showed in his manner and a subdued excitement. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. I thank God for His sunlight on your face.
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