She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. The room was dark and dusty.
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