He is coming down slowly and staggering into the dining room, his hand hovering over his half-closed eyes. “The light!” he moans. “Close the shutters! Help me,” he begs. Anne puts a cautionary hand on her sister’s arm. Emily immediately folds the letter she is writing, as well as the one they have received, and slips them into her book. She raises her eyebrows at Anne, who gets up to help their brother into the room, the dogs sniffing around him. He leans on her shoulder and seems to sink. He sits down, resting his head on Emily’s shoulder. Anne fulfills his request, and the sunlit room is suddenly dim. The dogs slink into the corner, wary. Their brother knows nothing about this publishing venture. How could they tell him? Proud and audacious beyond his station, he had puffed himself up with dreams of glory and had accomplished so little. Besides, he no longer has any discretion. They have all feared he might blurt out, in one of his drunken fits, their noms de plume, which are so important to preserving their anonymity.
