She crossed to it, first went under it, then thought
that he would not see her there so came out and stood, nervously
rubbing her gloved hands against one another and turning her head,
like a bird, swiftly from side to side. She didn't like standing
there. It seemed to make her so prominent. Men stared at her. He
should have been there first. He might have known . . . But perhaps
Caroline never gave him the letter. At that thought her heart really
did stop. She was terrified at once as though some one had told her
disastrous news. She would not wait very long; then she would go
home . . .
She saw him. He stood only a little away from her staring about him,
looking for her. She felt that she had not seen him for years; she
drank in his sturdiness, his boyish face, his air of caring nothing
for authority. She had not seen his dark blue overcoat before. He
stood directly under a lamp, swaying ever so little on his heels,
his favourite, most characteristic, movement. He stood there as
though he were purposely giving her a portrait that she might
remember for the rest of her days. She was too nervous to move and
then she wanted that wonderful moment to last, that moment when she
had realised that he had come to meet her, that he was there,
amongst all those crowds, simply for her, that he was looking for
her and wanting her, that he would be bitterly disappointed did she
not come .
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