The beating of the unceasing rain upon the tin roof, and the perpetual rattle of the train made an endless tattoo in her brain from which there was no escape.

She was haunted by the memory of the last journey that she had made along that line when leaving Kurrumpore in the spring, of Ralph and the ever-growing passion in his eyes, of the first wild revolt within her which she had so barely quelled.

How far away seemed those days of an almost unbelievable torture! She could regard them now dispassionately, albeit with wonder.
She marvelled now that she had ever given herself to such a man.

By the light of experience she realized how tragic had been her blunder, and now that the awful sense of shock and desolation had passed she could be thankful that no heavier penalty had been exacted.

The man had been taken swiftly, mercifully, as she believed.