She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. ‘Was she planning to make away with all this stuff?’ ‘What’s this?’ Hilary pounced on a black item slung on the floor by the dresser. But she must not laugh. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Manning, “I know.
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