She had often the manner of a person who was afraid of being overheard; sometimes, even when she was making speeches quite simple in themselves, her voice dropped and she glanced furtively aside as if there were chances that something she dreaded might step out of the shadow.
When they went upstairs together and parted for the night, the clinging of Rosy's embrace was for a moment almost convulsive.

But she tried to laugh off its suggestion of intensity.
"I held you tight so that I could feel sure that you were real and would not melt away," she said.

"I hope you will be here in the morning." "I shall never really go quite away again, now I have come," Betty answered.

"It is not only your house I have come into.

I have come back into your life." After she had entered her room and locked the door she sat down and wrote a letter to her father.