Her way lay through the village, and as she climbed the steep hill which
rose abruptly from the bay, in first one cottage, then another, lights
twinkled into being, like bright, inquisitive eyes peering through the
falling dusk. Absorbed in her thoughts, she had lingered on the shore
longer than she intended, and when she reached the top of the hill she
instinctively quickened her pace and hastened along the somewhat lonely
stretch of road which led to the Cottage.
Just as she was within a short distance of the gate, she caught the sound
of footsteps coming from the opposite direction. There were few people
abroad in the lanes, as a rule, at this hour of the evening, and the idea
that the approaching pedestrian might prove to be a tramp leaped quickly to
Ann's mind. She was seized with a sudden nervousness, born of the dusk and
loneliness of the road and of her own bodily fatigue, and she broke into a
run, hoping to reach the Cottage gate before the supposed tramp should turn
the corner. But the steps drew nearer--striding, purposeful steps, not in
the least like those of a tramp--and an instant later the figure of Eliot
Coventry rounded the bend in the road and loomed into view.
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