She hid the mended gown he hated under an apron of Hannah's, slipped into his arms and out again with tears upon her cheeks, and fled from his protestations with her hands upon her ears.
Kenny followed her to the door of Adam's sitting room, frantic with distress.

Verily, he thought, as the door closed gently in his face, the quality of Joan's mercy was not strained.

It came like Portia's gentle rain from Heaven.

It forgot and forgave and condoned.

But the thought of her, flowerlike in the shadow of death, was unendurable.
Anxious to help, Kenny sculled the old punt back and forth, whenever the horn blew, until dusk.