It was a momentof horror, of disillusionment, of
revelation, for both of them. To cut anovergrown branch saddened her because it had
once lived, and life wasdear to her.
Tufts ofwhite smoke held together for a moment;
then gently solved themselves,faded, and dispersed.
One second later oldMiss Rashleigh stretched her
leg out; gripped her stick; and rose too.
Ifonly one could feel that and stick to it, always.
Miss Milan was much more real, much kinder.
She hadattracted them first, and then her brothers
friends from Oxford orCambridge.
Sheunbolted the door of the game room as Wing, the
keeper, drove the cartover the cobbles.
She was stitching, too, in the small dark room that
overlookedthe stable yard. The setting of that scene could be varied as one chose,
Fanny Wilmotreflected.
By degrees she would cease tostruggle any
more.
He rowed her back and said good-bye to her.
Probably she scarcely knew what she meant byit. Theyre ogres, she had said, laughing
grimly. MissCraye was left badly off, Miss Kingston was afraid, at her
brothersdeath. Theystood in the purple ploughed field outside. Then again up shot
the rockets, thereddish purple pheasants.
The birdsseemed alive still, but swooning under
their rich damp feathers. He had no heart, no fundamental kindness, only aveneer of
friendliness.
She wouldhave considered the comparison very
furiously.
Theystood in the purple ploughed field
outside.
Chk, said Miss Antonia, pinching her glasses on her
nose.
She saw back and back into the pastbehind her. It
was a momentof horror, of disillusionment, of revelation, for both of
them.
One could not helplooking from one to the other. It
wassomething that lasted; something that mattered for ever. Then again up shot the
rockets, thereddish purple pheasants. No, Miss Craye was steadily, blissfully,
ifonly for that moment, a happy woman. One could not relate these tablets to any
human purpose.
She found the climate of Edinburgh goodfor her.
CouldMabel tell her if Elmthorpe was ever let for August and September? Probably she
scarcely knew what she meant byit. She sat hunched a little, a little angular,
though shewas graceful then, steering.
To cut anovergrown branch saddened her because it
had once lived, and life wasdear to her.
It wassomething that lasted; something that
mattered for ever.
But then sheought to have been truthful and direct.
For as she gazed, her lips moved; now and then she smiled. One could make that yield
what oneliked, Fanny Wilmot thought, single out, for instance, Mr.
Here she broke off, to denounce acridly the
draughts in the Tubes.