They were a kind of anodyne.
On a blowing afternoon in the middle of April she made her way across the down with her basket to a distant hazel coppice to which she had not been as yet.
A fever of unrest possessed her.

She had thought when she confessed to Magdalen that her misery had reached its lowest depths.

But it had not been so.

Her wretchedness, momentarily relieved, had since gone a step deeper, that was all.

She had endeavoured to allay her thirst with a cup of salt water, which had only increased it to the point of agony.
As she walked a bare tree stretched out its naked arms to waylay her.