wiped her cheeks, that were all wet. Why, why
must people suffer so? Suffer so slowly, so horribly? What were men made
of that they could go on day after day, year after year, watching others
suffer?

When the warder came back to take her out, she did not trust herself to
speak, or even to look at him. She walked with hands tight clenched, and
eyes fixed on the ground. Outside the prison door she drew a long, long
breath. And suddenly her eyes caught the inscription on the corner of a
lane leading down alongside the prison wall--"Love's Walk"!

CHAPTER XXXIII

Peremptorily ordered by the doctor to the sea, but with instructions to
avoid for the present all excitement, sunlight, and color, Derek and
his grandmother repaired to a spot well known to be gray, and Nedda went
home to Hampstead. This was the last week in July. A fortnight spent
in the perfect vacuity of an English watering-place restored the boy
wonderfully. No one could be better trusted than Frances Freeland to
preserve him from looking on the dark side of anything, more specially
when that thing was already not quite nice. Their conversation was
therefore free from allusion to the laborers, the strike, or Bob Tryst.
And Derek thought the more. The approaching trial was hardly ever out
of his mind. Bathing, he would think of it; sitting on the gray jetty
looking over the gray sea, he would think of it. Up the gray cobbled
streets and away on the headlands, he would think of it. And, so as not
to have to think of it, he would try to walk himself to a standstill.
Unfortunately the head will continue working when the legs are at rest.
And when he sat opposite to her at meal-times, Frances Freeland would
gaze piercingly at his forehead and muse: 'The dear boy looks much
better, but he's getting a little line between his brows--it IS such a
pity!' It worried her, too, that the face he was putting on their little
holiday together was not quite as full as she could have wished--though
the last thing in the world she could tolerate were really fat cheeks,
those signs of all that her stoicism abhorred, those truly unforgivable
marks of the loss of 'form.' He struck her as dreadfully silent, too,
and she would rack her brains for subjects that would interest him,
often saying to herself: 'If only I were clever!' It was natural he
should think of dear Nedda, but surely it was not that which gave him
the little line. He must be brooding about those other things. H