Neither of them was yet _of the truth._ At the other side of the heath, almost upon the path, stood a deserted hut; door and window were gone, but the roof remained: just as they neared it, the wind fell, and the rain began to come down in earnest.
"Let us go in here for a moment," said Tom, "and get our breath for a new fight." Letty said nothing, but Tom felt she was reluctant.
"Not a soul will pass to-night," he said.

"We mustn't get wet to the skin." Letty felt, or fancied, refusal would be more unmaidenly than consent, and allowed Tom to lead her in.

And there, within those dismal walls, the twilight sinking into a cheerless night of rain, encouraged by the very dreariness and obscurity of the place, she told Tom the trouble of mind their interview at the oak was causing her, saying that now it would be worse than ever, for it was altogether impossible to confess that she had met him yet again that evening.
So now, indeed, Letty's foot was in the snare: she had a secret with Tom.

Every time she saw him, liberty had withdrawn a pace.

There was no room for confession now.