It's no good crying. I shall never come back.
They're not witches.' She had a vision of them at the dinner table,
Rose like a white flower, Caroline and Sophia jewelled, gaily dressed,
a little absurd, oddly distinguished. 'Witches! They are my father's
sisters, and I love them.'
'Ah, but you don't know Rose,' Christabel sobbed. 'And don't say you
will never come again. And don't tell Francis. He would be angry.'
'How could I tell him?' Henrietta asked indignantly. 'No, no, I don't
want to see either of you again. I shall go away--go away--' She left
the room to the sound of a horrible, faint weeping.
She meant what she had said. She thought she would go away from
Radstowe and forget Christabel Sales, forget Francis Sales, whom she
would no longer pretend to love; forget those insinuations that Aunt
Rose was guilty of a crime. This place and these people were abhorrent
to her, she felt she had been poisoned and she rushed down the long
avenue where, overhead, the rooks were calling, as though she could
only be saved by the clean night air beyond the house. She was
shocked; she believed that Christabel was mad; the thought of that
warm room where the cat listened, made her gasp, and her horror
extended to Francis Sales himself. The place felt wicked, but the
clear road stretching before her, the pale evening sky and the sound
of her own feet tapping the road restored her.
She was glad to be alone and, avoiding the short cut, she enjoyed the
sanity of the highway used by ordinary men and women in the decent
pursuit of their lives.
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