not deceived. She had long hands.

The wind from afar on her cheek reminded her poignantly that she was a
prisoner. She could not go to the clustered village on the left, nor into
the saltings on the right, nor even on to the sea-wall where the new rushes
and grasses were showing. All the estuary was barred, and the winding road
that mounted the slope towards Colchester. Her revolt against injustice
was savage. Hatred of her father surged up in her like glittering lava. She
had long since ceased to try to comprehend him. She despised herself
because she was unreasonably afraid of him, ridiculously mute before him.
She could not understand how anybody could be friendly with him--for was he
not notorious? Yet everywhere he was greeted with respect and smiles, and
he would chat at length with all manner of people on a note of mild and
smooth cordiality. He and Miss Ingate would enjoy together the most
enormous talks. She was, however, aware that Miss Ingate's opinion of him
was not very different from her own. Each time she saw her father and Miss
Ingate in communion she would say in her heart to Miss Ingate: "You are
disloyal to me." ...

Was it possible that she had confided to Miss Ingate her fearful secret?
The conversation appeared to her unreal now. She went over her plan. In the
afternoon her father was always out, and to-morrow afternoon her mother
would be out too. She would have a few things in a light bag that she could
carry--her mother's bag! She would put on her best clothes and a veil from
her mother's wardrobe. She would take the 4.5 p.m. train. The stationmaster
would be at his tea then. Only the booking-clerk and the porter would see
her, and neither would dare to make an observation. She would ask for a
return ticket to Ipswich; that would allay suspicion, and at Ipswich she
would book again. She had cut out the addresses of the boarding-houses.
She would have to buy things in London. She knew of two shops--Harrod's and