Explore "Ovington's Bank" by Stanley J. Weyman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The next day, Sunday, was raw and wet. Mist blotted out the hills, and beneath it the vale mourned. The trees dripped sadly, pools gathered about the roots of the beeches, the down-spouts of the eaves gurgled softly in the ears of those who sat near the windows. Miss Peacock alone ventured to church in the afternoon, Arthur walking with her as far as the door, and then going on to the Cottage to have tea with his mother. Josina stayed at home in attendance on her father, but ten minutes after the others had left the house, he dismissed her with a fractious word.
She went down to the dining-room, where she could hear his summons if he tapped the floor. She poked up the smouldering logs, and looked through the windows at the dreary scene-the day was already drawing in-then, settling herself before the fire, she opened a book. But she did not read, indeed she hardly pretended to read, for across the page of the Sunday volume, in black capitals, blotting out the type, forcing itself on her brain, insistent, inexorable, unavoidable, the word "When? " imprinted itself.