The horses were eating their heads off in the stable, and Marion was eating her heart out in the house. The two processes were simultaneous, and were entirely dependent one upon the other, for the self-same cause engendered them both. That cause was the weather. King Frost held the world in his mighty grip. The roads were as hard as iron, every pond and puddle was sheeted in ice; long frostfingers hung from, all the projecting eaves and corners of house, barns and greenhouses; whilst trees and bushes and shrubs all over the garden were delicately shrouded in a fairylike veil of silver rime. And naturally there was no hunting. That was why Marion Blake was miserable.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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