"I kept it."
Feversham suddenly leaned down towards her.
"You did!"
Ethne nodded her head.
"Yes. The moment I went upstairs that night I packed up your presents
and addressed them to your rooms."
"Yes, I got them in London."
"But I put your photograph aside first of all to keep. I burnt all your
letters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hall
to be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heard
your step upon the gravel in the early morning underneath my windows.
But I had already put your photograph aside. I have it now. I shall keep
it and the feathers together." She added after a moment:--
"I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all the
time."
"I had no right to anything," said Feversham.
There was still a narrow slip of gold upon the grey space of stone.
"What will you do now?" she asked.
"I shall go home first and see my father. It will depend upon the way we
meet."
"You will let Colonel Durrance know. I would like to hear about it."
"Yes, I will write to Durrance."
The slip of gold was gone, the clear light of a summer evening filled
the church, a light without radiance or any colour.
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