The McCloskeys had only boys, two that were off in the Service and one that was full grown and had moved down South. She and I were very close. This was enough for the poor widow. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped.
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