Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. ‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Lucy's grin faded.
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