She repeated the words to herself again and again, but remotely she knew that when she said, "He is my husband," that was the worst thing of all.
This inward struggle was a bad preparation for any added misery, and when their railroad journey terminated at Stornham Station she was met by new bewilderment.
The station itself was a rustic place where wild roses climbed down a bank to meet the very train itself.

The station master's cottage had roses and clusters of lilies waving in its tiny garden.

The station master, a good-natured, red-faced man, came forward, baring his head, to open the railroad carriage door with his own hand.

Rosy thought him delightful and bowed and smiled sweet-temperedly to him and to his wife and little girls, who were curtseying at the garden gate.

She was sufficiently homesick to be actually grateful to them for their air of welcoming her.