‘You make a game with me, I think. It can wait a bit longer. I can’t afford to get behind. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go.
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