To Anna Petrovna she was
comfortable, unspeculative, friendly "home." To Nikitin she was the
face of one woman upon whose eyes his own were always fixed. To Marie
Ivanovna she was a flaming glorious wonder, mystical, transplendent,
revealed in every blade of grass, every flash of sun across the sky,
every line of the road, the top of every hill.
And to Trenchard and myself? For Trenchard she had, perhaps, taken to
herself some part of his beloved country. He has told me--and I will
witness in myself to the truth of this--that he never in his life felt
more burningly his love for England than at this first moment of his
consciousness of Russia. The lanes and sea of his remembered vision
were not far from that dirty, disordered town in Galicia--and for both
of them he was rendering his service.
At any rate there we sat, huddled together, reflected in the countless
looking-glasses as a helpless miserable "lot," falling into long
silences, hoping for the coming of Molozov with later news, listening
to the confusion in the street below.
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