The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies.
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