She heard the splash
and withdrawal of the tide, the murmur of many voices, the singing
of the distant hymn, the blare of the trumpet.
Strange and mysterious, the wind blowing through it all like a
promise of beauty and splendour to come . . .
She turned in the starlit dark, separated herself from the crowd,
and hurried home.
In the hall on the table under the lamp she saw a letter. She saw
that it was addressed to her and that the writing was Amy Warlock's.
Before she picked it up she stood there listening. The house was
very still. Grace and Paul had probably begun supper. She picked up
the letter and went up to her bedroom.
As though she were scanning something that she had already seen, she
read:
I made you a promise and I will now fulfil it.
My brother, Martin, arrived in London three days ago. He is staying
at No. 13A Lynton Street, King's Cross.
I have seen him but he has told me that he does not wish to see me
again. He is very ill; his heart is bad and his lungs are affected.
He has also spent all his money. I mentioned your name but he did
not seem to be at all interested.
Pages:
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841