She followed the landlady half way up-stairs, and called up to Ann Veronica, “May I come up? It’s me! You know—Nettie Miniver!” She appeared before Ann Veronica could clearly recall who Nettie Miniver might be. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence.
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