Wood uttered something like an imprecation. I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. Besides, those things are deadly. “Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. 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. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed.
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