Лето

           Verenawastherealone:sheglancedatCharitytranquilly,withherolddeaf-lookingeyes.TherewasnosignofMr.Royallaboutthehouseandthehourspassedwithouthisreappearing.Charityhadgoneuptoherroom,andsattherelistlessly,herhandsonherlap.Puffsofsultryairfannedherdimitywindowcurtainsandfliesbuzzedstiflinglyagainstthebluishpanes.

           Atoneo’clockVerenahobbleduptoseeifshewerenotcomingdowntodinner;butsheshookherhead,andtheoldwomanwentaway,saying:“I’llcoverup,then.”

           Thesunturnedandleftherroom,andCharityseatedherselfinthewindow,gazingdownthevillagestreetthroughthehalf-openedshutters.Notathoughtwasinhermind;itwasjustadarkwhirlpoolofcrowdingimages;andshewatchedthepeoplepassingalongthestreet,DanTargatt’steamhaulingaloadofpine-trunksdowntoHepburn,thesexton’soldwhitehorsegrazingonthebankacrosstheway,asifshelookedatthesefamiliarsightsfromtheothersideofthegrave.

           ShewasrousedfromherapathybyseeingAllyHawescomeoutoftheFrys’gateandwalkslowlytowardtheredhousewithherunevenlimpingstep.AtthesightCharityrecoveredherseveredcontactwithreality.ShedivinedthatAllywascomingtohearaboutherday:nooneelsewasinthesecretofthetriptoNettleton,andithadflatteredAllyprofoundlytobeallowedtoknowofit.

           Atthethoughtofhavingtoseeher,ofhavingtomeethereyesandanswerorevadeherquestions,thewholehorrorofthepreviousnight’sadventurerushedbackuponCharity.