Five minutes later, as the sunset sky turned pink above the rockery, it began to seem possible that something worse had happened. But he must have missed his train, or at least his connection: she saw him pacing the long platform at Harrow and Wealdstone, and rather regretting he’d come. She wanted to get a look at Cecil, to drink him in for a minute before he saw her, and was introduced, and asked her what she was reading. Now the light was going, and the words began to hide among themselves on the page. It wasn’t easy: she was thinking all the while about George coming back with Cecil, and she kept sliding down, in small half-willing surrenders, till she was in a heap, with the book held tiringly above her face. She’d been lying in the hammock reading poetry for over an hour.
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