She went on, her feet dragging at every step. At every step she grew more nervous, more undecided. She took a letter from her pocket and read it over twice. She stopped, half turned back. Her face was violent red and chalk-white in turn. Still she went on, with lagging, heavy feet and a queer, terrified shame and excitement at her heart: went on over that open common which was just beginning to flush with heather. Another man came by, driving a black pig. It grunted, and seemed to run in every direction but the right one. He looked a stupid man; but, then, they were all half-witted in the country. She said--very slowly and deliberately, as if she were speaking to a small child--that she wanted Folly Corner. He gave a vacillating grin, keeping one eye on the pig, and pointed to a substantial stack of chimneys on the left. “That be Folly,” he said laconically, and left her. She could see the house through the dense leafage of three great elms. She stood, with one hand firmly gripping her gay parasol, and the other twitching at the crisp edge of her veil. She looked at the red gables, at the spreading outbuildings, at the garden, at the yard; she looked back at the hot road cutting across the common. Should she go back or should she go on? For a moment she closed her eyes, and immediately the dark, straight wall of the prison shot up slowly like a specter and chilled her. The prison! The prison and the one damned, dear soul beating within its walls! But that was past. She had wrestled out that finally--at night, in her London room, close beneath the slates; at night, in her bed, the letter under her pillow, or twisting in her hot fingers. The gate which led into the garden was a white wicket. At each side was a poplar. These had grown so thick and tall that they met midway and formed an arch. There was a path of red brick, a little raised, leading up to the house door; it led up straight, between box edgings two feet high. The garden-beds were rather neglected, but a great clump of red-hot pokers pointed flame fingers to the sky, and a loose white rose, like foam, clung to the walls and ran along the low roof. There was a long window each side the door, and in front of the one on the right was a yew-tree clipped into the shape of an umbrella. The clipping had been neglected, and the tree had the dishevelled appearance of a man who neglects to shave. There was an air of indolence about the garden, but it did not seem the indolence of poverty. A pond partly encircled the place. A red-and-white cow came down to drink and to look at her reflectively with its big, closely-veined eyes.