John Hubert was startled. That was the voice of Ulwing the builder.
“I spoke too soon,” he thought, vexed. “I ought to have waited a little longer.”
Then he waited. Outside the snow was falling already.
In the next few weeks Anne’s face became more and more transparent. She did not sleep at night. She sang no longer, nor did she laugh and during the long evenings she sat silent in the green room, while her father worked at the writing table with the innumerable drawers.
John Hubert had now to use spectacles for reading. He pushed them up on his forehead and looked stealthily at Anne. Gradually he became anxious. He thought of his own life. He had never been happy, had never made anybody else happy.
“Are you ill?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Have you any pain?”
Anne did not answer but her eyes asked him why he tortured her. John Hubert bent down. He turned the pages of his ledger. Anne heard him sigh anxiously.
“Have you had bad news from Christopher?” she asked, going to the writing table. “No? Is it the business?... Speak to me about it, for I too am an Ulwing.”