She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. "Take this key to Baptist Kettleby. My late husband, I mean. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Living’s just material. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. And you’re as clean as fire. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison.
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