She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. But they climbed more than he had intended because Ann Veronica proved rather a good climber, steadyheaded and plucky, rather daring, but quite willing to be cautious at his command. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. . . Ramage, I came here—I didn’t suppose for one moment you would dare —” “Nonsense! That is your mistake! You are too intellectual. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone.
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