Nor had he inquired about her when work had ended for the day.

Had the excuse of a headache been made only to cover feelings that had been deeply injured?
Or had it meant a blind to veil real, serious illness?
For three years, Barry Houston had known Agnes Jierdon in day-to-day association.

But never had he remembered her in exactly the light that he had seen her to-day.

There had been a strangeness about her, a sharpness that he could not understand.
He stopped just at the entrance to the mill clearing and looked toward the cottage.

It was darkened.