She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. It makes no difference. You are much more like what I was then. ‘Keep your distance! You dare to tell me I cannot refuse?’ He glared at the girl. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. I will pray for you.
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