Her mood changed to anger again. Even now she did not grasp it fully, but he had insulted her. He had flung back in her face all that she had given him. Injured pride was at work now, and for a moment she hated him so that she could have killed him gladly had he been there. But it was no good—she could not think about it clearly; she was tired, terribly tired.
"I'm tired to death, mother," she said. "I can't think to-night."
She stumbled a little as she turned to the door.
"At least," said Mrs. Feverel, "there are the letters."
But Dahlia had scarcely heard.
"The letters?" she said.
"That he wrote in the summer. You have them safe enough?"
But the girl did not reply. She only climbed heavily up the dark stairs.