Charity had gone up to her room, and sat there listlessly,
her hands on her lap. Puffs of sultry air fanned her dimity window
curtains and flies buzzed stiflingly against the bluish panes.
At one o'clock Verena hobbled up to see if she were not coming down to
dinner; but she shook her head, and the old woman went away, saying:
"I'll cover up, then."
The sun turned and left her room, and Charity seated herself in the
window, gazing down the village street through the half-opened shutters.
Not a thought was in her mind; it was just a dark whirlpool of crowding
images; and she watched the people passing along the street, Dan
Targatt's team hauling a load of pine-trunks down to Hepburn, the
sexton's old white horse grazing on the bank across the way, as if she
looked at these familiar sights from the other side of the grave.
She was roused from her apathy by seeing Ally Hawes come out of the
Frys' gate and walk slowly toward the red house with her uneven limping
step. At the sight Charity recovered her severed contact with reality.
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