For a time they walked in silence. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us.
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