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The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. They carried no more than bare subsistence wages; and they demanded all her time and energy. “I was able to borrow the money.
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