167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room.
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