A cart laden with market produce waited by a cottage door for the driver who stood swallowing his final cup of tea.

A bare-headed child clung round his leg, an attendant Hebe.

The wanderers halted.
"If the other cart could have taken us back to Nunsmere," said Septimus, with the air of a man who has arrived at Truth, "this one can carry us to the station." And so it fell out.

The men made Emmy as comfortable as could be among the cabbages, with some sacks for rugs, and there she lay drowsy with pain and weariness until they came to the end of their journey.
A gas-light or two accentuated the murky dismalness of the little station.
Emmy sank exhausted on a bench in the booking hail, numb with cold, and too woebegone to think of her hair, which straggled limply from beneath the zibeline toque.

Septimus went to the booking office and asked for two first-class tickets to London.