"Did any one pass you on the road?"
"Not a soul."
"Peter, have you an enemy?"
"Not that I know of, unless it be myself. Epictetus says somewhere that—"
"Oh, Peter, how dreadfully quiet everything is!" said she, and shivered.
"Are you cold?"
"No—but it is so dreadfully—still."
Now in one place the lane, narrowing suddenly, led between high banks crowned with bushes, so that it was very dark there. As we entered this gloom Charmian suddenly drew closer to my side and slipped her hand beneath my arm and into my clasp, and the touch of her fingers was like ice.
"Your hand is very cold!" said I. But she only laughed, yet I felt her shiver as she pressed herself close against me.
And now it was she who talked and I who walked in silence, or answered at random, for I was conscious only of the clasp of her fingers and the soft pressure of hip and shoulder.