Her dread had been held captive by her belief, her triumphant anticipation of Majendie's denial.
Presently he spoke; and his voice was strange to her as the voice of another man.
"Anne," he said, "didn't she tell you?
It was before I knew you.

And it was the only time." "Don't speak to me," she cried with a sudden passion, and lay shuddering.
She rose, slipped from the bed, and went to a chair that stood by the open window.

There she sat, with her back to the bed, and her eyes staring over the grey parade and out to the eastern sea.
"Anne," said her husband, "what are you doing there ?" Anne made no answer.
"Come back to bed; you'll catch cold." He waited.
"How long are you going to sit there in that draught ?" She sat on, upright, immovable, in her thin nightgown, raked by the keen air of the dawn.

Majendie raised himself on his elbow.

He could just see her where she glimmered, and her braid of hair, uncoiled, hanging to her waist.