She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. His eyes closed. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. Earles would permit. So I am already no longer the girl you knew at Morningside Park.
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