"I suppose," she said to herself, "she couldn't help it."
The lights of Morfe shone through the November darkness. The little slow mare crawled up the winding hill to the top of the Green; Rowcliffe's horse was slower. But no sooner had Peacock's trap passed the doctor's house on its way out of the village square, than the clanking hoofs went fast.
Rowcliffe was free to go his own pace now.
* * * * *
"Which of you two is going to hook me up?" said Mary.
She was in the Vicar's room, putting on her wedding-gown before the wardrobe glass. Her two sisters were dressing her.
"I will," said Gwenda.
"You'd better let me," said Alice. "I know where the eyes are."
Gwenda lifted up the wedding-veil and held it ready. And while Alice pulled and fumbled Mary gazed at her own reflection and at Alice's.
"You should have done as Mummy said and had your frock made in London, like Gwenda. They'd have given you a decent cut. You look as if you couldn't breathe."