As we turned the corner of the drive something prompted me to look back at my mother's window—with its memories of my first going to school.
At the next moment we were crossing the bridge—with its memories of Martin Conrad and William Rufus.
At the next we were on the road.
THIRTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
"Thank God, that's over," said my husband. Then, half apologetically, he added: "You didn't seem to enjoy it any more than myself, my dear."
At the entrance to our village a number of men stood firing guns; in the middle a group of girls were stretching a rope across the road; a number of small flags, torn by the wind and wet with the rain, were rattling on flagstaffs hung out from some of the window sills; a few women, with shawls over their heads, were sheltering on the weather side of their porches to see us pass.
My husband was impatient of our simple island customs. Once or twice he lowered the window of the car, threw out a handful of silver and at the same time urged the chauffeur to drive quicker. As soon as we were clear of the village he fell back in his seat, saying:
"Heavens, how sleepy I am! No wonder either! Late going to bed last night and up so early this morning."
After a moment he began to yawn, and almost before he could have been aware of it he had closed his eyes. At the next moment he was asleep.