And she could trust her friend: he who was a singular constancy.

His mother had told her of his preserving letters of a girl he loved when at school; and of his journeys to an empty house at Dover.

That was past; but, as the boy, so the man would be in sincerity of feeling trustworthy to the uttermost.
She mused on the friend.

He was brave.

She had seen how he took his blow, and sorrow as a sister, conquering emotion.