You have the gift of words, but you haven't started to create yet. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. . She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance.
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