In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go.
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