But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. She attacked his hair resolutely. 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. But he has never been near her—never. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly.
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