'Do not be irreverent.' 'I dunna think you know what Ed'ard thinks as well as me.' 'Don't say "dunna," Hazel. Of course, I know what Edward thinks a great deal better than you. I've known him all his life.' Afterwards, when Mrs. Marston was not in the room, Martha said in her contemptuous tones: 'I s'pose you know, Mrs. Ed'ard, how he's going on?' 'Who?' 'Why, that Mr. Reddin.' 'What's he done?' 'Oh, I know! But I wouldn't soil me mouth, only I'm thinking you'd ought to know.' She looked triumphant. 'He's after that there Sally something as lives nearby. They do say as all her brats be his.' 'Mr. Reddin's? Is he--like--married to her, Martha?' 'About as much as he was to you, I reckon!' 'And does she--live there now?' 'I dunno.' 'Is she pretty?' 'It inna allus the prettiest as get lovers.' 'But is she prettier than me?' 'I've heard she's bigger and finer.' 'But she hanna got abron hair?' 'How should I know?' This was desolate news to Hazel; for Reddin, now that she was going to bear his child, had become necessary to her. She was unconscious of the reason of this need--not a spiritual one, but purely physiological. She did not hate him for this news. Such hatred is abnormal. Nor did she love him. That would have been still more abnormal. But she must be in his house; she must sew for him, share his daily doings, sleep in the big four-poster, and not in the small virginal bed at the Mountain. It would be grievous to leave Edward. He was the shelter between her flickering spirit and the storms of life. She had hesitated, putting off the inevitable, feeling that Undern was always there, like an empty room, for her re-entry, so she had not hurried. Now the room was occupied, her place taken. Immediately she felt that she must go. Feverishly she decided to go this very night and peer in (no one but herself had ever drawn the blinds at Undern of late years) and see for herself. Mrs. Marston and Martha both seemed to be pushing her over the brink. When, after tea, she crept from the house, she was crying--crying at leaving Edward, the master and the comrade of her unknown self. It was as if she gave up immortality. Yet she was relieved to be going--that is, if she could stay at Undern. Both her tears and her relief were natural. The pity was that body and soul had been put in opposition by belonging to different men. She left a little blotted note for Edward. 'Dunna think too bad of me, Ed'ard. I be bound to go to Undern and live; I ud liefer bide along of you.'