The moor had a pathetic attraction for her, because not very long
ago a man and a woman had been lost, only a few steps from Borhedden
Farm, in the mist--lost their way and been frozen during the night.
Poor things! lovers, perhaps, they had been.
Maggie felt that here she could walk for miles and miles and that
there was nothing to stop her; the clang of a gate, a house, a wall,
a human voice was intolerable to her.
Her first thought as she went forward was disgust at her own
weakness; once again she had been betrayed by her feelings. She
could remember no single time when they had not betrayed her. She
recalled now with an intolerable self-contempt her thoughts of her
father at the time of the funeral and the hours that followed. It
seemed to her now that she had only softened towards his memory
because she had believed that he had left her money--and now, when
she saw that he had treated her contemptuously, she found him once
again the cruel, mean figure that she had before thought him.
For that she most bitterly, with an intensity that only her
loneliness could have given her, despised herself.
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