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 other men. He did not think nor dream nor hope as she did. Why, then, did his hands and mouth, sad grey eyes and halting voice rock her senses? This cannot be love. Oh, God help me, this is not love...and she thought guiltily of Mamma and Mr. Matthews. Is there, then, something stronger, more terrible than love? Something wicked, against which clergymen had preached when she had been a sleepy child in church, against which prophets major and prophets minor had raised their voices? Augustus had feared that she might have inherited her mother's wantonness...and she thought piteously of that lovely woman. Jones's arm stole around her just as she was on the point of begging him either to love her more or less, to take her with him to Arabia or to let her go now.

The copper-pink sun rolled from the icy sky towards the horizon. A long, glittering path spilled from it to the red sleigh across the white enamel fields.

'Captain Jones, we have driven too far. You forget we yet have the return journey to make. We must have come over ten miles.'

'Twenty-odd. Look.' He pointed with the whip and the horses crouched and sprang against their collars.

'Nam, nam, nam,' he called to them in Arabic fashion, and 'Look,' he said again to Lanice. 'There's the Red Horse Inn.'

Up the slope, behind great oaks, was the portly, gambrel-roofed hostelry.