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 ('It is just as well that it was he who met me—not Anthony.')

('I suppose if she asks me where he is, I'll tell her; after all she's not a child.')

'Some of the French inns have even odder names,' he said mildly, and taking her upon his arm he marched her into the dining-room.

She went far North to Westmoreland and there, in a doll's cottage garlanded with fading roses and laced with bird wings, she saw the figure of Harriet Martineau creep out in the sun to greet her, her ear-trumpet—great as the horn of Gabriel—thrust towards her interviewer.

She went to Yorkshire, and with sweating, panting horses climbed a black moor and came to a stone-cold village where even the roofs were of stones and no flowers brightened. At the head of the one street was a churchyard where the dead lay so close there was scarce room for grass. The dead seemed to push against the living and only a feeble lilac hedge held them back from the parsonage where the genius-stricken Brontes had lived and died. 'If I had come two years ago,' she thought, 'I should have seen them—at least I should have seen Charlotte, but she's gone now like the rest.' And she waited half the day to see a sick old man in clerical gaiters and stock, leaning upon his cane and shaking as he walked. What children he had—this sad old man! And they were gone and he was left. She thought of Emily striding upon