Anne was hardly herself these days, since they had married Alice off. Most of the time she was lost in her own little world, doing what was expected of her without attention, and preferably without speaking. She would pretend to speak to Alice in her mind, pretending that her sister could hear her and she could whisper encouragement and comfort to her. Neither of them was alone. And then, at sudden moments, her apathy would give way to a suffocating restlessness, and a sense that she needed to get out of here, or she'd be next. But then she'd realize there was nothing she could do, and she'd slip back into a kinder daydream. 

Like this moment. I'm here, Alice. You're fine. You're not alone. I could see the moors from the harbor this morning. See? Perhaps if you just climb a hill, you can see Whitby. Perhaps if I just think of you hard enough, you shan't be all alone. Anne was carrying the long lines from the harbour on a wicker tray, passing through one of the narrow steep lanes and hardly paying attention to where she was.