Mr.
Hornflower still lived, it was true, but that was not Joan's fault.

Joan, standing in white night-gown beside her bed, everything around her breathing of innocence and virtue: the spotless bedclothes, the chintz curtains, the white hyacinths upon the window-ledge, Joan's Bible, a present from Aunt Susan; her prayer-book, handsomely bound in calf, a present from Grandpapa, upon their little table; Mrs.Munday in evening black and cameo brooch (pale red with tomb and weeping willow in white relief) sacred to the memory of the departed Mr.Munday--Joan standing there erect, with pale, passionate face, defying all these aids to righteousness, had deliberately wished Mr.Hornflower dead.

Old George Hornflower it was who, unseen by her, had passed her that morning in the wood.

Grumpy old George it was who had overheard the wicked word with which she had cursed the pig; who had met William Augustus on his emergence from the pond.

To Mr.George Hornflower, the humble instrument in the hands of Providence, helping her towards possible salvation, she ought to have been grateful.