" "You hear that," whispered Jack. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. He nodded. It was painful to want him so much. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. I shall make no defence. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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