Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. ‘I rather suspect,’ added Prudence, ‘that Major Alderley’s motives were somewhat different. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. “You will have some tea?” she asked. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. "I've often heard of a secret door in this room, though I never saw it. . . But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha'n't hinder him. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import.
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