"You are not--making a mock of it ?" he said.
"I am not making a mock of it." "My aunt now writes to me that Miss Christie's home has been broken up by the death of her mother, and that if it can be arranged she is willing to come to me here.

My aunt talks of bringing her.

I am to write." He said the last words slowly, as if he weighed them.

They had passed the turning to the Murchisons', walking on with the single consciousness of a path under them, and space before them.

Once or twice before that had happened, but Advena had always been aware.