Most satisfactorily did that bounding, lurching, stumbling run along
the dark, uneven lane punish this crime-steeped George. Well he
realised, before he had sped a hundred yards, that guilt lashes with a
double thong. She had scourged him mentally; now with scorpions she
physically lashed him. As it had been racked throbbed that left arm
encircling the basket wherein in wild fear the Rose clung to ease the
dreadful bruisings that each oscillation gave her; as it were a
ton-weight did that hand-bag drag his right arm, thud his thigh;
as he were breathing fire did his tearing respirations sear his throat;
as a great piston were driving in his skull did the blood hammer
his temples.
Topping a low rise he sighted the station lights below.
Simultaneously, from behind a distant whistle there sprang to his ears
the low rumble of the coming train.
This history is not to be soiled with what George said at the sound.
With the swiftness and the scorching of flame his dreadful commination
leapt from the tortured Rose, terrified in her basket, to the red-
headed Pinner boy wrestling in prayer upon the haystack--from the
roughness of the lane that laboured his passage to the speed of the
oncoming train that hammered at his fate.
He hurled himself down the rise; with his last breath gasped for a
ticket; upon a final effort projected himself into the train; went
prone upon a seat.
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