She pushed at the closer of the two soldiers bearing the precious burden. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again. "I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't polished yet.
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