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find anything to note in her attitude (she was aware of no explicit change in her thought, but the memory of Clive had reminded her that something intolerable hemmed her in closely, from which she must escape);—and if, just as it approached her, humming and throbbing, she stepped quietly before it, or better still—her mind flashed pictures now—stumbled and fell forward, Miriam could tell how she had fallen last night. Her sight felt empty; her heart had melted away; she was thinking of her mother and of the dream: ‘Of course we all knew she killed herself.’ It was as if her mother, above the swift, hungry humming, were calling to her, and she felt no fear, only laid her stick down quickly beside her—for it would be horrid to be entangled and impeded—and the insect whir of wheels and pistons was close now, close———.

What was this crash and impact?—Death? She was dragged aside and struggled for footing on the steep embankment. Great eyes were looking into hers;—eyes of passionate reprobation; eyes of the Byzantine Madonna, and the clutch on her arm and shoulder of hard hands. ‘That would be a rotten thing to do,’ said Hester, and her voice floated like a wisp borne on the roar and current of the train sweeping by above them.