” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. The aunt laughed. . ’ ‘For God’s sake,’ protested his junior. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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