” “I came,” Anna answered, looking her sister steadily in the face, “to hear all that you can tell me about a man named Hill. ‘That’s not much comfort. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. Now keep still. . It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side.
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