“I think it’s lovely—wonderful,” she said, dazed.
He held her passionately. But she did not feel she needed protecting. It was all wonderful and amazing to her. She could not understand why he seemed upset and in a sort of despair. To her there was magnificence in the lustrous stars and the steepnesses, magic, rather terrible and grand.
They came down to the level valley bed, and went rolling along. There was a house, and a lurid red fire burning outside against the wall, and dark figures about it.
“What is that?” she said. “What are they doing?”
“I don’t know,” said Ciccio. “Cosa fanno li—eh?”
“Ka—? Fanno il buga’—” said the driver.
“They are doing some washing,” said Pancrazio, explanatory.
“Washing!” said Alvina.
“Boiling the clothes,” said Ciccio.
On the cart rattled and bumped, in the cold night, down the high-way in the valley. Alvina could make out the darkness of the slopes. Overhead she saw the brilliance of Orion. She felt she was quite, quite lost. She had gone out of the world, over the border, into some place of mystery. She was lost to Woodhouse, to Lancaster, to England—all lost.