"They knew," she said solemnly, "they always knew what was to happen."
Beyond the garden door she walked into a dark, damp world: mist was settling on the moor; drops spangled her dress and rested softly on her face and hands. She shut her eyes and seemed to be walking through emptiness, a place unencumbered by thoughts and people; yet she was not surprised when she was caught and held.
"Let go!" she said, without opening her eyes, and she was obeyed.
"I've been waiting for you," George said in a husky whisper.
"But I didn't say I would come."
She could hear him breathing close to her. "I can't see your eyes. You've got them shut. What's the matter? You're not crying?"
She opened them, and they were the colour of the night, grey and yet black, but they were not wet.
"I've been waiting for you," he said again, and once more she answered, "I didn't say I would come."
"I was coming to the door to ask about Mrs. Caniper," he went on, still speaking huskily and very low.
"Were you?"