Лето
I
SuchhadbeenthesolelinkbetweenNorthDormerandliterature,alinkpiouslycommemoratedbytheerectionofthemonumentwhereCharityRoyall,everyTuesdayandThursdayafternoon,satatherdeskunderafreckledsteelengravingofthedeceasedauthor,andwonderedifhefeltanydeaderinhisgravethanshedidinhislibrary.
Enteringherprison-housewithalistlessstepshetookoffherhat,hungitonaplasterbustofMinerva,openedtheshutters,leanedouttoseeiftherewereanyeggsintheswallow’snestaboveoneofthewindows,andfinally,seatingherselfbehindthedesk,drewoutarollofcottonlaceandasteelcrochethook.Shewasnotanexpertworkwoman,andithadtakenhermanyweekstomakethehalf-yardofnarrowlacewhichshekeptwoundaboutthebuckrambackofadisintegratedcopyof“TheLamplighter.”Buttherewasnootherwayofgettinganylacetotrimhersummerblouse,andsinceAllyHawes,thepoorestgirlinthevillage,hadshownherselfinchurchwithenviabletransparenciesabouttheshoulders,Charity’shookhadtravelledfaster.Sheunrolledthelace,dugthehookintoaloop,andbenttothetaskwithfurrowedbrows.
Suddenlythedooropened,andbeforeshehadraisedhereyessheknewthattheyoungmanshehadseengoinginattheHatchardgatehadenteredthelibrary.
Withouttakinganynoticeofherhebegantomoveslowlyaboutthelongvault-likeroom,hishandsbehindhisback,hisshort-sightedeyespeeringupanddowntherowsofrustybindings.Atlengthhereachedthedeskandstoodbeforeher.
