You don't look yourself, Craven." He didn't.

His careless, happy look had left him.

Increasingly, every day, Olva seemed to see in him a likeness to his mother and sister.

The eyes now were darker, the tines of the mouth were harder.
Meanwhile so strong bad the dream's impression been that Olva could not yet disentangle it from his waking thoughts.

He was in his room and yet the white road stretched out of it--somewhere there by the bookcase--oil through the mist into the heart of the dark wood.
He had welcomed during these last days Craven's advances towards friendship, partly because he wanted friends now, and partly, he was beginning now to recognize, there was, in the back of his mind, the lingering memory of the kind eyes of Margaret Craven.