So she walked dreaming on toward the invisible door of
her fool's paradise, and never guessed how near it was or what Nature would
look like from the other side.
She still dwelt at the little home on the cliff, so unreal and shadowy now;
she built cloud castles ablaze with happiness; she found falsehood not
difficult, for her former absolute truthfulness deadened her stepmother's
suspicion. Certain lies told at home enabled her to keep faith with the
artist; and the weather also befriending him, three more sittings in speedy
succession brought John Barron to the end of his labors. After Joan's
exhibition of jealousy he was careful to say little about his work and
affect no further interest in it. He let her chatter concerning the future,
told her of his big house in London, and presently took care to drop hints
from time to time that the habitation was by no means as yet ready to
receive his bride. She always spoke on the assumption that when the picture
was done he would leave for London and take her with him. She already
imagined herself creeping off to join him at the station, sitting beside
him in the train, and then rolling away, past Marazion, into the great
unfamiliar world which lay beyond. And he knew that no such thing would
happen. He intended that Joan should become a pleasant memory, with the
veil of distance and time over it to beautify what was already beautiful.
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