The porter told her that he would try to send her box up to Woodview
to-morrow.... That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could
not miss it. She would find the lodge gate behind that clump of trees. And
thinking how she could get her box to Woodview that evening, she looked at
the barren strip of country lying between the downs and the shingle beach.
The little town clamped about its deserted harbour seemed more than ever
like falling to pieces like a derelict vessel, and when Esther passed over
the level crossing she noticed that the line of little villas had not
increased; they were as she had left them eighteen years ago, laurels,
iron railing, antimacassars. It was about eighteen years ago, on a
beautiful June day, that she had passed up this lane for the first time.
At the very spot she was now passing she had stopped to wonder if she
would be able to keep the place of kitchen-maid. She remembered regretting
that she had not a new dress; she had hoped to be able to brighten up the
best of her cotton prints with a bit of red ribbon. The sun was shining,
and she had met William leaning over the paling in the avenue smoking his
pipe. Eighteen years had gone by, eighteen years of labour, suffering,
disappointment. A great deal had happened, so much that she could not
remember it all.
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