Yet she knew what McClane and Mrs. Rankin had been playing for.  McClane, if he could, would have taken their fine Roden cars from them; he would have taken Sutton.  She knew that Mrs. Rankin would have taken John from her, Charlotte Redhead, if she could.

And when she thought of the beautiful, arrogant woman, marching up to the battlefield with John, she wondered whether, after all, she didn’t hate her....  No.  No.  It was horrible to hate a woman who at any minute might be killed.  They said McClane didn’t look after his women.  He didn’t care how they exposed themselves to the firing; he took them into unnecessary danger.  He didn’t care.  He was utterly cold, utterly indifferent to everybody and everything except his work of getting in the wounded....  Well, perhaps, if he had been decent to John, she wouldn’t have believed a word of it, and anyhow they hadn’t come out there to be protected.

She had a vision of John and McClane carrying Mrs. Rankin between them on a stretcher.  That was what would happen if you hated.  Hate could kill.

Then John and she were safe.  They were lovers.  Lovers.  Neither of them had ever said a word, but they owned the wonderful, immaterial fact in secret to each other; the thought of it moved in secret behind all their other thoughts.  From the moment, just passed, when they held each other’s hands she knew that John loved her, not in a dream, not in coldness, but with a queer unearthly ardour.  He had her in his incredible, immaterial way, a way that none of them would understand.

From the Barrow Hill Farm time?  Or from yesterday?  She didn’t know.  Perhaps it had gone on all the time; but it would be only since yesterday that he really knew it.

A line of soldiers marched by, going up to the battlefield.  They looked at her and smiled, a flashing of bright eyes and teeth all down the line.  When they had passed the street was deserted.

...  That rattle on the stones was the firing.  It had come at last.  She saw Gwinnie looking back round the corner of the hood to see what it was like.  She called to her, “Don’t stick your head out, you silly cuckoo.  You’ll be hit.”  She said to herself, If I think about it I shall feel quite jumpy.  It was one thing to go tearing along between two booming batteries, in excitement, with an end in view, and quite another thing to sit tight and still on a motionless car, to be fired on.  A bit trying to the nerves, she thought, if it went on long.  She was glad that her car stood next to the line of fire, sheltering Gwinnie’s, and she wondered how John was getting on up there.

The hands of the ambulance clock pointed to half-past three.  They had been waiting forty minutes, then.  She got down to see if any of the stretcher bearers were in sight.

* * * * *

They were coming back.  Straggling, lurching forms.  White bandages.  The wounded who could walk came first.  Then the stretchers.