To Maggie the house seemed to say something, something comforting and reassuring.
Standing there, she registered her vow that through all her life she would care for no one.

No one should touch her.
Had there been an observer he might have found some food for his irony in the contemplation of that small, insignificant figure so ignorant of life and so defiant of it.

He would have found perhaps something pathetic also.

Maggie thought neither of irony nor of pathos, but turned homewards with her mouth set, her eyes grave, her heart controlled.
As she walked back the sun broke through the mist, and, turning, she could see Borhedden like a house on fire, its windows blazing against the sky.
It was natural that her aunt should wish to return to London as soon as possible.

For one thing, Ellen the cook had packed her clothes and retired to some place in the village, there to await the departure of the defeated family.