Wilmay and Other Stories of Women/A Complete Recovery

A COMPLETE RECOVERY.
It had been a clear summer day. In the pale evening sky was now that one star. Through flat fields a straight white road led from Saffinwell to the station. The omnibus of the Saffinwell Arms met all trains—all the poor slow six—every day. It was now making its last journey to the station for the day, to meet the evening down-train. The horses seemed to move with mechanical doggedness; they had been doing the same thing at the same times for so long. As mechanically, at a certain point in the road, the driver touched his hat. He almost always passed that lady just there. It had been a novelty to him once, and then a joke, and now it was what the thing that always happens always becomes in the end—nothing at all. But he still touched his hat every evening as he passed her, and with reason: when Miss Emmeline Folker was so ill that her sister and her doctor were ready, if necessary, to use physical force to prevent her from walking to the station to meet the evening train, she would take a cab from the Saffinwell Arms. "Coachman," she would say, "when you get to the station, draw up in such a position that I can see every one who comes out from the 7.15 train. Wh

Đọc bản gốc tại Wikisource tiếng Anh