The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. It was fastened inside. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. .
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