Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Old Lancashire families both. Manning’s handwriting, and opened his letter and read some lines before its import appeared. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. She repeated this breathlessly. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.
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