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Bagnold, Enid, 1889-1981

"The Happy Foreigner"


"You see," he said, pursuing his thought, "lorries wouldn't do here.
They'd sink."
"They would," she agreed, and found that his innocence of her secret
locked her words more tightly in her throat. Far above, from an iron
peak, the light of the heavy sun was slipping. Beneath it they ran in
shadow, through rock and moss. Before the light had gone they had
reached the first crest and drew up for a moment at a movement of
his hand.
Looking back to Charleville, he said, "See where the river winds. The
railway crosses it three times. Can we see from here if the bridges are
all down?" And he stood up and, steadying himself upon her shoulder,
peered down at Charleville, to where man lived in the valleys. But
though the slopes ahead of them were still alight, depths, distance, the
crowding and thickening of twilight in the hollows behind them offered
no detail.
"I fear they are," she said, gazing with him. "I think they are. I think
I can remember that they are."
Soon they would be at the top of the long descent on Revins. Should she
tell him, he who sat so close, so unsuspecting? An arrowy temptation
shot through her mind.
"Is it possible--Why not write a letter when he is gone!"
She saw its beauty, its advantages, and she played with it like someone
who knew where to find strength to withstand it.


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