These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She felt the bedsprings coil as he moved from his seated position, entranced. Annabel was in hiding all the time. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. But they were too late. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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