“I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. She felt the thrill race through her body. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon.
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