She veiled herself in a cloud of smoke.
“You know,” he added, “this is a repetition of the Elizabeth Hammer episode. Pure hysteria. Darling.”
There was an appreciable pause.
“Why, you’re right. So it is,” said the suffragette.
“Come on,” shouted the gardener. “We can catch it yet.”
“If I come,” she said, “it will be strong, not weak.”
“Of course,” said the gardener. “Come on.”
“It would be much easier to stay here.”
“Oh, much,” panted the gardener. “Come on, come on.”
So they ran, and on the way back they discovered how interminable the main street was, and how relentless is the sun of the West Atlantic. But when they reached the wharf, the launch was still clinging to the liner.