Again she
struggled to life, lived for a few minutes, choked and was silent.
"How is the handle?"
"Pretty stiff," said Foss, "but getting better. Give me the oil squirt."
Alfred took his place at the handle. Suddenly the car sprang to life
again on a full deep note. Fanny lifted her head a little. Foss was
leaning over the carburettor with his thin anxious look: Alfred stood
in the snow, dark red in the face, and covered with oil. Soon they were
moving along the road, slowly at first, and with difficulty: then faster
and more freely. A little thin warmth began to creep up through the
boards and play about her legs.
She was carried along under her dark rug for another twenty minutes,
then fell against the seat as the car turned sharply into the forsaken
road that led to the broken bridge. In five minutes more the car had
stopped and Alfred was at the door saying: "At last, mademoiselle!" She
stammered her thanks as she tried to step from the car to the ground
--but fell on her knees on the dashboard.
"Have you hurt your foot?" said Alfred, who was hot.
"I am only cold," she said humbly, unwilling to intrude her puny
endurances on their gigantic labours.
She sat on the step of the car rubbing her ankles, and stared at the
meadows of thawing snow, at the open porches of stone which led the road
straight into the river, at the church and the sunlit houses on the
other side.
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