It was winter, and there were no moths or other insects flying, What could it be?
She put her face close to the pane, and looked out.

There was a man in the shadow of one of the ricks! He had his hat off, and was beckoning to her.

It could be nobody but Tom! The thought sent to her heart a pang of mingled pleasure and pain.

Clearly he wanted to speak to her! How gladly she would! but then would come again all the trouble of conscious deceit: how was she to bear that all over again! Still, if she was going to be turned out of the house so soon, what would it matter?
If her aunt was going to compel her to be her own mistress, where was the harm if she began it a few days sooner?
What did it matter anyhow what she did?
But she dared not speak to him! Mrs.
Wardour's ears were as sharp as her eyes.

The very sound of her own voice in the moonlight would terrify her.