At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. You don’t know, Anna, but when one is in danger one realizes that the— the other side of the line is Hell. We mustn’t make it so.
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