The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. For a moment she thought of saying yes, and then filled with shame. ” He snarled. She drank it obediently. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while.
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