The steam pipes, only warm at the start, were entirely cold by one
o'clock, and by two Sara Lee was sitting on her feet, with a heavy coat
wrapped about her knees.
The train moved quietly, as do all English trains, with no jars and
little sound. There were few lights outside, for the towns of Eastern
England were darkened, like London, against air attacks. So when she
looked at the window she saw only her own reflection, white and
wide-eyed, above Aunt Harriet's fur neckpiece.
In the next compartment an officer was snoring, but she did not close
her eyes. Perhaps, for that last hour, some of the glow that had brought
her so far failed her. She was not able to think beyond Folkestone, save
occasionally, and that with a feeling that it should not be made so
difficult to do a kind and helpful thing.
At a quarter before three the train eased down. In the same proportion
Sara Lee's pulse went up. A long period of crawling along, a stop or
two, but no resultant opening of the doors; and at last, in a cold rain
and a howling wind from the channel, the little seaport city.
More officers than she had suspected, a few women, got out.
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