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But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She disengaged her hands and stood up. There was a young lad ahead of her. Horrible doubts assailed her. “Let’s go. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him.
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