"The secret might come out that way too. No, Furlonger, if you are wise you'll let me alone."
He drew back a little as he spoke—the friendly reaction was passing. He had always hated Janey's brothers, because he was jealous of her love for them; and now, though the original reason was gone, he still hated them for the cause of that reason—for what he believed was the foundation of Janey's love, their physical strength and fitness.
However, there was not much of either to be seen in Leonard now. He swayed pitifully as he stood there facing Quentin, and though his lips moved, no sounds came past them. Then he turned away. Lowe watched him stagger across the field. He expected him to fall every minute, except once, when for some strange reason he expected him to turn back and confront him again. But he neither fell nor turned. He stumbled blindly on, then disappeared into the next field.
For a moment or two Quentin stood alone in the great meadow, under the hurrying sky. The scent of hay no longer blew to him wistfully, but triumphantly, like the fragrance of festal wine. He spread out his arms, and stood there in the quivering, scented hush, while the wind cooled his damp forehead, and ruffled the hair back from it tenderly.
Then he turned homewards from Cowsanish.
But he had not gone far before he altered his direction. He struck again southwards, through the grass lanes that wind past Old Surrey Hall, towards Shovelstrode. He would lay his thankfulness, his deliverance, his redemption, at Tony's feet—at the feet of the woman who symbolised them all.