ripple and thrill of the muscles in your stride.

She wouldn't have to think of him again. She wouldn't have to think of
any other man. She didn't want any more of that again, ever. She could go
on and on like this, by herself, without even Gwinnie; not caring a damn.

If she had been cruel--if she had wanted to hurt Effie. She hadn't meant
to hurt her.

She thought of things. Places she had been happy in. She loved the high
open country. Fancy sitting with Gibson in his stuffy office, day after
day, for five years. Fancy going to Glasgow with him. Glasgow--

No. No.

She thought: "I can pretend it didn't happen. Nothing's happened. I'm
myself. The same me I was before."

Suddenly she stood still. On the top of the ridge the whole sky opened,
throbbing with light, immense as the sky above a plain. Hills--thousands
of hills. Thousands of smooth curves joining and parting, overlapping,
rolling together.

What did you want? What did you want? How could you want anything but
this for ever?

Across the green field she saw the farm. Tall, long-skirted elms standing
up in a row before the sallow ricks and long grey barns. Under the loaded
droop of green a grey sharp-pointed gable, topped by a stone ball. Four
Scotch firs beside it, slender and strange.