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Updated: May 9, 2025
All the way up to London and down to Wansdon he sat with "The Heart of the Trail" open on his knee, knitting in his head a poem so full of feeling that it would not rhyme. Fleur sped on. She had need of rapid motion; she was late, and wanted all her wits about her when she got in.
But the war of motives within him was but postponed the longing for Fleur, and the hatred of deception. He came to the old chalk-pit above Wansdon with his mind no more made up than when he started. To see both sides of a question vigorously was at once Jon's strength and weakness. He tramped in, just as the first dinner-bell rang. His things had already been brought up.
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