It was the very tree under which Michael and she had kissed each other, six spring-tides ago.

She recognised it suddenly, and turned her eyes away, as if a corpse were hanging in chains from one of its branches.

Her averted eyes fell upon a seagull wheeling against the blue, the incarnation of freedom and the joy of life.

She turned away her eyes again and hurried on, looking neither to right nor left.
A light wind went with her, drawing her like a "kind constraining hand." She stumbled across the bare shoulder of the down to the wood below.
Magdalen came by the same way soon afterwards, but not to gather primroses.

Magdalen usually so serene was becoming daily more troubled.
The thought of Michael in prison ground her to the earth.