I do n't like your weak women -- they 're always sly . If Stephen Fair do n't get better she 'll be free and then -- '' He did not round out the thought , but he gloated over the memory of Emily , standing by the gate in the harsh , crude light of the autumn sunset , with her tawny , brown hair curling about her pale , oval face and the scornful glint in her large , dark-grey eyes . Emily stood at the gate for some time after Jameson 's waggon had disappeared . When the brief burst of sunset splendour had faded out she turned and went into the garden where late asters and chrysanthemums still bloomed . She gathered some of the more perfect ones here and there . She loved flowers , but to-night the asters seemed to hurt her , for she presently dropped those she had gathered and deliberately set her foot on them . A sudden gust of wind came over the brown , sodden fields and the ragged maples around the garden writhed and wailed . The air was raw and chill . The rain that had threatened all day was very near . Emily shivered and went into the house . Amelia Phillips was bending over the fire . She came forward and took Emily 's parcels and wraps with a certain gentleness that sat oddly on her grim personality . `` Are you tired ? I 'm glad you 're back . Did you walk from the station ? '' `` No . Hiram Jameson was there and offered to drive me home . I 'd rather have walked . It 's going to be a storm , I think . Where is John ? ''
`` He XXXXX to the village after supper , '' answered Amelia , lighting a lamp .
're disappeared gathered get gloated loved sat stood went writhed