* * * * *
It was broad daylight when Ethne was at last alone within her room. She
drew up the blinds and opened the windows wide. The cool fresh air of
the morning was as a draught of spring-water to her. She looked out upon
a world as yet unillumined by colours and found therein an image of her
days to come. The dark, tall trees looked black; the winding paths, a
singular dead white; the very lawns were dull and grey, though the dew
lay upon them like a network of frost. It was a noisy world, however,
for all its aspect of quiet. For the blackbirds were calling from the
branches and the grass, and down beneath the overhanging trees the
Lennon flowed in music between its banks. Ethne drew back from the
window. She had much to do that morning before she slept. For she
designed with her natural thoroughness to make an end at once of all her
associations with Harry Feversham. She wished that from the moment when
next she waked she might never come across a single thing which could
recall him to her memory. And with a sort of stubborn persistence she
went about the work.
But she changed her mind. In the very process of collecting together the
gifts which he had made to her she changed her mind.
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