She divined that Ally was coming to hear about her day: no one else
was in the secret of the trip to Nettleton, and it had flattered Ally
profoundly to be allowed to know of it.
At the thought of having to see her, of having to meet her eyes and
answer or evade her questions, the whole horror of the previous night's
adventure rushed back upon Charity. What had been a feverish nightmare
became a cold and unescapable fact. Poor Ally, at that moment,
represented North Dormer, with all its mean curiosities, its furtive
malice, its sham unconsciousness of evil. Charity knew that, although
all relations with Julia were supposed to be severed, the tender-hearted
Ally still secretly communicated with her; and no doubt Julia would
exult in the chance of retailing the scandal of the wharf. The story,
exaggerated and distorted, was probably already on its way to North
Dormer.
Ally's dragging pace had not carried her far from the Frys' gate when
she was stopped by old Mrs. Sollas, who was a great talker, and spoke
very slowly because she had never been able to get used to her new teeth
from Hepburn.
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