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Updated: June 1, 2025
She sat in the darkness until she heard, very far off, the beat of a horse's hoofs, the rumble of wheels. She remembered then that she had to find Henrietta. The road towards Sales Hall was nowhere blurred by a figure, there was no sound of footsteps, and the noise of the approaching horse and cart was distantly symbolic of human activity and home-faring; it made her think of lights and food.
The gleam of uniforms in a drab world, the upright bearing, the rattle of a kettledrum, the boom of a salute, the murmur of the "Dead March," the goodnight of the "Last Post" sounding over the home-faring traffic and the quiet cradles one does not know by what substitutes eternal peace could exactly replace them. For they are symbols of a spiritual protest against the degradation of security.
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