Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. A shiver slid down inside her. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. She had come to the end of her resources. “I do hope you will see how things are, and not be offended with me or frightfully shocked and distressed by what I have done.
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