The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police. Practically. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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