Roger stood motionless and rigid where she had left him. After a moment, he made a mechanical movement as if to walk on. Then he flung himself down upon his face on the whitening grass.
And the merciful mist wrapped him also in its grey folds.
Low in the east the thin moon climbed blurred and dim, as if seen through tears.
CHAPTER XXXVI
"The paths of love are rougher
Than thoroughfares of stones."
Thomas Hardy.
Roger lay on his face, with his mouth on the back of his hand.