. 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. I don’t think they do matter. "I must tell you," she was saying. "I'm come to say good bye to you, and to assure you of my safety before I leave this place. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. And then—this sudden thrust. Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. “She must look forward to Italy. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face.
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