She felt that his love for her had simply grown out of his love for Edith, it was the flame, the flower of his tenderness.

It was one with his goodness, and she had been glad to have it so.

There was no jealousy in Anne.
It came over her now with a fresh shock, how very little, after all, she had known of him.

It was through Edith that she really knew him.

And yet it was impossible that Edith could have absorbed him utterly.