Judith sighed and looked out over the sea.
“I fear you will find no rest in Saltire,” she said to him.
“Rest! No. Could it be possible? The place cramps and crushes my soul. There is no generosity, no hope, no idealism here. It is as a burial-ground for souls.”
“Escape from it.”
“Impossible.”
“And why?”
“What of Ophelia?”
They were both silent awhile, as though searching each other’s hearts. The wind tumbled the dead leaves at their feet; the clouds were gray and morose in the winter sky.
“Ah, Gabriel, it might have been otherwise.”
The man frowned and did not answer her.