“But your hair,” he gasped. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. ‘You put that thing away now, missie. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night.
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