"I am afraid--I hadn't thought lately of coming to London," she
murmured. "I suppose--I'm a coward. And just now I should be no good
to anybody."
"All right. I don't care for your reasons--so long as you go home--and
don't uproot."
Marion held her close. She had heard all the girl's story, had shown her
the most tender sympathy. And on this strange wedding journey of hers
she knew that she carried with her Diana's awed love and yearning
remembrance.
But now she was eager to be gone--to be alone again with her best
friend, in this breathing-space that remained to them.
So Diana saw them off--the shabby, handsome man, with his lean, proud,
sincere face, and the woman, so frail and white, yet so indomitable.
They carried various bags and parcels, mostly tied up with string, which
represented all their luggage; they travelled with the peasants,
fraternizing with them where they could; and it was useless, as Diana
saw, to press luxuries on either of them. Many heads turned to look at
them, in the streets or on the railway platform. There was something
tragic in their aspect; yet not a trace of abjectness; nothing that
asked for pity.
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