“I must see Morrison. I must see her at once.”
He tried to see her next day, but Clowes told him she had gone to the country.
“I insisted on her going, she was looking so pale. You know when she feels lonely she won’t eat. When she is miserable she gets so shy that she can’t even go into a shop. . . . I have taken a cottage in the country, just outside London. Two rooms, two shillings a week. Isn’t it cheap? So I packed her off there two days ago.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know. When she is tired of being alone. She said she wanted to be alone.”
“I want to see her. It is a very important for me to see her.”
“I won’t have you making her ill,” said Clowes.
“I must see her. Will you give me her address, so that I can write to her?”
Clowes gave him the address, and he wrote saying that life was intolerable without her.
Morrison did not need his letter, and, indeed, it only reached the cottage after she had left. She knew he needed her. Never for an instant was his image absent from her mind, and at night, when she lay awake, she could have sworn she heard a moaning cry from him. No wind ever made a sound like that.