Marigold took the wheel in front and drove on.
She sought for my hand, held it in an iron grip, and said not a
word. It was but a five minutes' run at the pace to which
Marigold, time-worn master of crises of life and death, put the
car. Betty held herself rigid, staring straight in front of her,
and striving in vain to stifle horrible little sounds that would
break through her tightly closed lips.
When we pulled up at her door she said queerly: "Forgive me. I'm a
damned little coward."
And she bolted from the car into the house.
CHAPTER XIII
Thus over the sequestered vale of Wellingsford, far away from the
sound of shells, even off the track of marauding Zeppelins, rode
the fiery planet. Mars. There is not a homestead in Great Britain
that in one form or another has not caught a reflection of its
blood-red ray. No matter how we may seek distraction in work or
amusement, the angry glow is ever before our eyes, colouring our
vision, colouring our thoughts, colouring our emotions for good or
for ill. We cannot escape it. Our personal destinies are
inextricably interwoven with the fate directing the death grapple
of the thousand miles or so of battle line, and arbitrating on the
doom of colossal battleships.
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