She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. You’re not to go. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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