Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. I spent many happy days there. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “What are you doing?” he asked. It was a long walk she had to undertake, even if she had endured no previous fatigue, but feeble as she was, it was almost more than she could accomplish.
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