“We had better pack our things; we shall have to go home to-morrow,” answered Anne.
In the train the outside world became once more “like the waving of weeds seen through water,” a series of noises, smells, and movements which concerned them little, and they did not speak of the future until they were on the boat, when Anne said: “Let’s deal with our affairs separately: while you are arranging with your father’s firm I will go down to Dry Coulter.”
Grandison nodded, and realizing that the cliffs before him were indeed those of Dover, that an interview with his uncle and his elder brother awaited him, and that his father would be back in England in a few days, a bitter regret seized him that he had ever seen Anne.
“Love for this woman is ruining my life,” he said to himself, but when he turned his head and he found himself gazing into her pale, fierce, happy face, he understood that he was helpless. He looked at his wife’s short straw-coloured hair, her intense grey eyes and her slim body, and listening to her abrupt speech he told himself that everything else was unimportant.
“I am glad I didn’t buy a bicycle,” said Anne. She had been thinking for a moment of the past.
SIXTEEN: ANGELS
The train reached Linton station at last, and Anne leaped out of the stuffy carriage, all the weariness of her long wait at Cambridge forgotten in the excitement of seeing again what she had so often seen before. She could not hide the eagerness in her voice as she handed her bag to the porter, asking him to give it to the carrier.
“Well, Miss, are you glad to be back?” he asked, recognizing her.
“Yes, of course I am,” she answered, and smiling with surprise she made her way across the market place.
Linton was unchanged, and she was filled with joy and gratitude to the little town, believing that it could never alter in the future and not reflecting that it was scarcely three months since she had set off with even greater excitement on her way to France in the belief that she would never see Linton again.