There
was some knitting-work on her lap, with brown wool and curiously shaped
needles; one foot rested on the base of the cradle, which she rocked
from time to time. At his approach she rose up, stark and hieratic,
without a trace of a friendly smile on her countenance. Was the lady
indoors? No, she was out. Out! Where? There was a definite but
enigmatical movement of her withered brown arm; it appeared to embrace
the universe. And when would she be back? No reply whatever. Only a
slight upward movement of the eyes, as much as to say: God knows!
"I'll wait," thought Mr. Heard.
He walked past the forbidding hag who seemed to exhale a positive
hostility towards him, and entered his cousin's sitting-room. He would
wait. He waited. He glanced through a pile of illustrated newspapers
that lay about. And still he waited. The room looked different somehow;
almost untidy. There were no rouses about. An hour passed. And still no
sign of his cousin.
Out. Always out. What could this mean? Where could she be? It was all
rather mysterious and unsatisfactory.
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