And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. ‘A devil is just what you are. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. She has been a dear. She addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow.
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