He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Then she stood up and looked around the room. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. The mere fact that he was there in the train alongside her, helping her, sitting opposite to her in the dining-car, presently sleeping on a seat within a yard of her, made her heart sing until she was afraid their fellow passengers would hear it.
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