” “You will let us hear from you—let us know where you are, very soon?” Annabel called out from the step. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Something is feeding upon them.
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