For what romantic, desperate or tragic reason she appointed the night meeting at the end of the chestnut avenue where the towing-path turns into regions of desolate quietude, he could not tell.

He agreed without argument, dreading the possible lack of privacy in their talk over the wires.
On that afternoon she came to me, as I have told you, with her strawberries and her declaration of the rottenness of life.
They met and walked along the towing-path.

It was bright moonlight, but she could not have chosen a lonelier spot, more free from curious eyes or ears.

And then took place a scene which it is beyond my power to describe.

I can only picture it to myself from Boyce's broken, self-accusing talk.