She had then, and she now had, an extraordinary feeling, as from a wind striking upon soft summer weather off regions of ice, that she was in her parents' way.

How?
The feeling was irrational; it could give her no reply, or only the multitudinous which are the question violently repeated.

She slept on it.
She and her father breakfasted by the London birds' first twitter.
They talked of Skepsey.

She spoke of her going as exile.

'No,' said he, 'you're sure to meet friends.' Her cheeks glowed.