When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that
she was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinking
of Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although she
said to herself: "I am not in love with any one." Sometimes she
thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman.
However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over his
death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour
feelings.

In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again after
breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp
and searching. From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops rained
down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the
rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing
above the woods, now light, now dark.

She was disappointed because life was no different than it was. She
had hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before the
war, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths in
her hair. But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she was
sad because she was no longer able to be gay. As she passed the little
cottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself: "Yes, you've
seen something of life. But not what I want to see, exactly. Look at
you." Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothing
more to live for. "There you are," she said, "and there you'll be.
Life doesn't mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you're concerned.

"You, God," she cried, "put something in my way, just once."