Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. It’s not like we’re getting married. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. “Thank you,” she said coolly. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing.
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