For the first time Lacville became utterly distasteful to Sylvia Bailey.
She asked herself, with a kind of surprise, of self-rebuke, why she was
there--away from her own country and her own people? With a choking
sensation in her throat she told herself that it would be very
comfortable to see once more the tall, broad figure of Bill Chester,
and to hear his good, gruff English voice again.
She stepped out of the house, and put up her white parasol.
It was still dreadfully hot, but to the left, across the lawn, lay the
cool depths of the chestnut wood. Why not go over there and rest in the
shade?
Hurrying across the scorched grass to the place where there was an
opening in the rough hedge, she found herself, a moment later, plunged
in the grateful green twilight created by high trees.
It was delightfully quiet and still in the wood, and Sylvia wondered
vaguely why the Wachners never took their tea out there. But foreigners
are very law-abiding, or so she supposed, and the wood, if a piece of
no-man's land, was for sale. Up a path she could see the back of a large
board.
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