"
"Do you know what they mean?" the farmer asked
Bathsheba, across the room.
"I don't in the least," said Bathsheba.
There was a smart rapping at the door. One of
the men opened it instantly, and went outside.
"Mrs. Troy is wanted." he said, on returning.
"Quite ready." said Bathsheba. "Though I didn't
tell them to send."
"It is a stranger, ma'am." said the man by the door.
"A stranger?" she said.
"Ask him to come in." said Boldwood.
The message was given, and Troy, wrapped up to
his eyes as we have seen him, stood in the doorway.
There was an unearthly silence, all looking towards
the newcomer. Those who had just learnt that he
was in the neighbourhood recognized him instantly;
those who did not were perplexed. Nobody noted
Bathsheba. She was leaning on the stairs. Her brow
had heavily contracted; her whole face was pallid, her
lips apart, her eyes rigidly staring at their visitor.
Boldwood was among those who did not notice that
he was Troy. "Come in, come in!" he repeated,
cheerfully, "and drain a Christmas beaker with us,
stranger!"
Troy next advanced into the middle of the room,
took off his cap, turned down his coat-collar, and looked
Boldwood in the face.
Pages:
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639