The silly Bridget gave the letter that she wrote to him to the Prioress by mistake, who burnt it before her eyes and said nothing.

The monks who brought provisions to the Nunnery were always received by three of the sisters, set to spy on each other and on them, so that she could not come near to them alone.

The priest who celebrated Mass was an old enemy of hers; with him she could do nothing, and no one else was allowed to approach the place except once or twice the Abbot, who was closeted for hours with the Prioress, but spoke to her no more.
Why, wondered Emlyn, should less than half-a-mile of space be such a barrier between her and Thomas Bolle?
If he stood within twenty yards of her she could make him understand; why not, then, when he stood within five hundred?
This idea possessed her; these limitations of nature made her mad.

She refused to accept them.

Night by night, lying brooding in her bed, while Cicely slept in peace at her side, she threw out her strong soul towards the soul of her old lover, Thomas Bolle, commanding him to listen, to obey, to come.
At first nothing happened.