“Ces!”
Sobs tore at her throat.
The clear, prolonged whistle of the engine came to them shrilly. He put his arms round her and laid his wet face against hers.
“I love you. I’ll try.”
He was gone.
Rose clung to the wooden barrier of the little station until long after the last red spark from the vanishing train had died in the air.
“Home, Madam?”
The voice of the old man-servant was very patient and pitying, as though he had spoken to her before, and understood why she had neither heard, nor answered.
“I am going to Dr. Lucian’s house,” said Rose Aviolet.
A blinding fatigue possessed her. She discovered that her arms, where Ford had gripped and held her, earlier in the evening, were aching and bruised.