She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know. Once outside, she ran towards the playground, and the grotto, a miniature limestone version of the manor, which was in itself a miniature of a fortress. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large.
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