In any case, she would never have turned to Mrs.Peck for comfort.
She came downstairs at last one summer evening when Mrs.Peck was busy in the kitchen and no one was about.

She had made no mention of her intention; perhaps she wanted to be unhampered by observation.

It had been a soft, showery day, and there was the promise of more rain in the sky.
She moved wearily, but not without purpose; and soon she was walking with a hood drawn over her head in the direction of the cliff-edge where grew the sweet bog-myrtle and the little roses.
She met no one by the way.

It was nearing the hour for the evening meal, nearing the hour when Mrs.Peck usually entered her room with the daily offering of flowers that filled it with orange fragrance.

Mrs.Peck was not very fond of that particular task, though she never expressed her reluctance.