She did not herself know how unhealthy it had been, but she
knew that she missed the wide fields and downs of Glebeshire, the
winds that blew from the sea round Borhedden, the air that swirled
and raced up and down the little stony strata of St. Dreot. Now she
had been kept indoors, had had no fun of any kind, had looked
forward to Mr. Magnus as her chief diversion. Then Martin had come,
and suddenly she had seen how dangerously her life was hemming her
in. She was losing courage. She would soon be afraid to speak for
herself at all; she would soon . . .
In a panic at these thoughts, and feeling as though some one was
trying to push her down into a coffin whilst she was still alive,
she began hurriedly to speak, although she did not know whether her
aunt were asleep or no.
"I think I ought to tell you, Aunt Anne, that I wrote a letter some
days ago and posted it myself. It was to a lady who knew Father once
in Glebeshire, and she said that if ever I wanted help I was to
write to her, and so--although perhaps I oughtn't to have done it
without asking you first, still I was afraid you mightn't want me
to--so I sent it.
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