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glare. 'We'd better go on on that,' said Spurstow, 'Go back to work. I've written my certificate. We can't do any more good here, and work'll keep our wits together. Come on.'
No one moved. It is not pleasant to face railway journeys at mid-day in June. Spurstow gathered up his hat and whip, and, turning in the doorway, said—
'There may be Heaven,—there must be Hell.
Meantime, there is our life here. We-ell?'
Neither Mottram nor Lowndes had any answer to the question.
