Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. I’ll feel fine as soon as I get out of my wet clothes. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Cathy sighed. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames.
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