Frederick goes. Anne’s days bleed together at Kellynch. There are balls at which Anne does not dance—there are evenings sitting with her father and sisters in which no one speaks to Anne—there are days when she sits at her pianoforte and finds she cannot play, picks up a book and cannot read.
She does not mean to think, “One year ago—two years ago—three years—" But there is nothing to drive the thought away. All of her days now are mutable shades of grey, and all of her days then are sweet, golden summer in her memory.