Her hand was on the last letter when Bessie knocked at the door.
"Miss Terry, it's half-past eleven. You ought to be in bed. I've locked up and put out all the lights, so just drink this milk and go."
"Yes, yes, Bessie, in a minute. How you do fuss!"
"The master said I was to see to you."
"I'm going to read this letter. Then I'll go."
She read it twice, and looked up with so dazed and wild a look that Bessie cried aloud in wonder.
"What is it, Miss Theresa? Are you ill?"
"No." Her hand went to her forehead. "I'm just thinking. Wait a bit. There's rather a lot to think about. Don't talk to me."
Memories and half-memories rushed and whirled about her. She saw her father's pallid face and felt his kisses. She remembered his silences as clearly as his words, and to all she fitted meanings, and fitted them again. She was afraid, yet the very immensity of her suspicion was its best derision, and so the wheels of her mind turned and clanked until the room went round with them, and meanwhile she sat very still, resting her head on her hands.
"Is it all right, Miss Terry?"