Yet she felt it would go wrong.

On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroom window, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood, in whose branches a twilight was tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon.

Grey-green rosettes of honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, she fancied, showing bud.

It was spring, which she loved and dreaded.
Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense.

It was a bright grey day.