Will Brangwen sat down. He felt something strange in the atmosphere. He was dark browed, but his eyes had the keen, intent, sharp look, as if he could only see in the distance; which was a beauty in him, and which made Anna so angry.
“Why does he always deny me?” she said to herself. “Why is it nothing to him, what I am?”
And Tom Brangwen, blue-eyed and warm, sat in opposition to the youth.
“How long are you stopping?” the young husband asked his wife.
“Not very long,” she said.
“Get your tea, lad,” said Tom Brangwen. “Are you itchin’ to be off the moment you enter?”
They talked of trivial things. Through the open door the level rays of sunset poured in, shining on the floor. A grey hen appeared stepping swiftly in the doorway, pecking, and the light through her comb and her wattles made an oriflamme tossed here and there, as she went, her grey body was like a ghost.
Anna, watching, threw scraps of bread, and she felt the child flame within her. She seemed to remember again forgotten, burning, far-off things.
“Where was I born, mother?” she asked.
“In London.”