There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. The delay was only momentary. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Her thoughts took words for themselves. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. You will go to London?” “It is necessary,” she answered. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. ” “She does. " She opened the book which she had brought to the table.
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