At the last moment Sally almost decided to go with them, as Ian’s dark leather bag was lifted into the back, as he ran up the stairs to put a pound in Maire’s hand, as he then turned, hesitated, might perhaps have kissed her but she luckily put out her hand and shook his quickly and could not say a word. Charles and Violet were already in the car.

“Well,” he said. He said, “Sally—”

“Just go,” Sally heard herself saying. “Don’t try to say anything,” and then as he turned away, she added, “Have a good flight!”

Before she knew what had happened the little black car had disappeared and she was left with one arm up, still waving but waving now at the trees, at the sheep, waving into space, alone like a mad person. She let her hand fall and stood there and then turned to go in, giving one searching glance at the wall of windows, at the stone height above her, a measuring glance which asked, “Can I do it?” almost as if she were about to scale them, and not as she did do, merely go into the house alone.

She went into the great hall and looked up at the portrait of her great-grandmother, and rested her eyes on the small elegant neck, on the bright dark eyes in the very oval face, on the surprising stubborn lower lip.

“You knew what you wanted,” she said to herself. Yes, she had known what she wanted and yet she had not died here in the house after all.

It was now that the absolute silence rushed out around her so that for just a second she felt dizzy, as if she were dissolving and had herself become a ghost Identity flowed away into that silence. It was a matter, she knew, instinctively now, of attack. She must not let herself be invaded by this silence. She must dominate it.

So she walked, she did not run to the backstairs and said to Annie quite quietly, “Annie, dear, do you suppose I could find an old pair of gloves somewhere? I need them.”

“Whatever for, doatie? I’ll take a look round, but first you’d better sit down and have a sip of tea.” Annie was already on her way to the stove with a cup in her hand. But she was stopped by a kind of authority in Sally’s voice.

“I really must have them now, Annie. You see, what I must do is to clear out those nettles in the stables. It’s been on my mind for weeks.”

Annie started to say something, gave one look at the set face in which determination had driven out all other feelings, and changed her mind. She disappeared into one of the many cupboards and came back holding out a pair of very dirty crumpled old brown cotton gloves.

“Would these be what you were looking for?” she asked with a barely perceptible twinkle in her eye.

“That’s wonderful, thanks,” Sally said and fled up the stairs again and out, running as if she would be fatally late for an appointment.

Well there are ways and ways of curing a broken heart, Annie was thinking, but pulling nettles is a new one. And she thought with satisfaction, she’s a Dene all right. Characters every one of them. You never know what to expect.

But of course she was wrong. For Sally among the nettles was happy, was for the moment fulfilled by something more than love. She was “inside” all that she had been outside of for so long, and she was inside it alone and free. Pulling out the nettles was the first gesture of a prisoner released.