‘Aye, that she was. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door.
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