Outside, the moon was already up—a full moon, high and white, a wisp of cloud stretched across it like a blindfold face.
Oh Fame, dear!
She put up her face.
Across the garden the Cathedral loomed out of a mist as white as milk.
“The damp,” she reasoned, “alone, would justify her flight.”
She shivered.
How sombre it looked in the lane.
There were roughs there frequently, too.
“Villains....”
She felt fearfully her pearls.