It never is. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. Perhaps because I don’t know. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Melusine cast one swift glance at it, and her eyes, flashing magnificently, came back to his face. ‘I have only borrowed it.
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