“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Jack had well-nigh fallen too. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate.
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