"Things," Miriam murmured, "might have got hold of her."
"I shouldn't have minded moor things. Oh, these stained knives! John, did she really cry?"
"Nearly, I did."
"Not she!"
"I did, Helen. I thought the dark would come, and you'd be lost perhaps, out on the moor—O-oh!"
"I think I'd like it—wrapped up in the night."
"But the noises would send you mad. Your eyes are all red. Have you been crying too?"
"It's the wind. Here's the rain coming. And where's my hair?" She smoothed it back and took off her muddy shoes before she sat down in the armchair and looked about her. "Isn't it as if somebody were dead?" she asked. "There are more shadows."
"I'll turn up the lamp," John said.
The tinkle of Helen's cup and saucer had the clearness of a bell in the quiet room, and she moved more stealthily. Miriam paused as she spread butter on the toast.