While he was doing this, Sylvia moved to a chair by the table and picked up the book.

What Ware had said about the hills of his youth, the woods, the word tamarack that he had dropped carelessly, touched chords of memory as lightly as a breeze vibrates a wind harp.

Was this merely her imagination that had been stirred, or was it indeed a recollection?
Often before she had been moved by similar vague memories or longings, whatever they were.

They had come to trouble her girlhood at Montgomery, when the snow whitened the campus and the wind sang in the trees.

She was grateful that the minister had turned his back.