Hairpins were necessities of life with which Harry had not been able to provide me, and my hair, straight and black, hung to my knees. I sat, my chin on my hands, lost in meditation. I felt rather than saw Harry looking at me.

“You look like a witch, Anne,” he said at last, and there was something in his voice that had never been there before.

He reached out his hand and just touched my hair. I shivered. Suddenly he sprang up with an oath.

“You must leave here tomorrow, do you hear?” he cried. “I⁠—I can’t bear any more. I’m only a man after all. You must go, Anne. You must. You’re not a fool. You know yourself that this can’t go on.”

“I suppose not,” I said slowly. “But⁠—it’s been happy, hasn’t it?”

“Happy? It’s been hell!”

“As bad as that!”