“Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes.
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