“Is that two o’clock striking?” Mrs. Dawes said in surprise.
Paul started, and everything sprang into form, regained its individuality, its forgetfulness, and its cheerfulness.
They hurried back to work.
When he was in the rush of preparing for the night’s post, examining the work up from Fanny’s room, which smelt of ironing, the evening postman came in.
“‘Mr. Paul Morel,’“ he said, smiling, handing Paul a package. “A lady’s handwriting! Don’t let the girls see it.”