There was, it might be said, a double illumination. To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. “Buon Primomaggio. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Her voice was weak and flat. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner.
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