A Daily Rate

A Daily Rate by Grace Livingston Hill

And now she was locked into her room. She took off her hat and coat and sat down, but she could not think. She could only feel the joy, and the certainty that it was not hers.
She tried to face herself and shame herself with saying plainly to her heart, “Celia Murray, you have fallen in love with Mr. Stafford. Yes, and you did it when you knew he belonged to another woman. Yes, you knew it well enough, though you wanted to pretend that maybe it was not so, because no one had told you so. But now you love him and he does not love you! He has just buried his heart, and you know you would not consider him the noble gentleman you think he is, if he should forget that love was ‘so peculiarly close in its relationship.’ And you love him in the face of that! Aren’t you ashamed! He does not love you, and he never will, and you must not let him, and oh—what shall I do?”