An unhappy little sigh escaped her. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly. Get you gone. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. ‘We don’t know who she is. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. Let us be gone.
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