She was weary of the yellow light, of the dull glare from the stubble fields, of the obtrusive colours of the autumn foliage, of the blueness of the sky, of everything, indeed, that she had seen and heard during the wretched hours of the day.

They now travelled through a very flat tract; little of the land was cleared; the road was straight.

It is hard to explain the mental weariness produced by a straight level road.
The hope and interest inspired by undulations or curves are lost.

The distance ever gives a farther reach of the weary way to the view, as if by a parable it would impress on the traveller the knowledge that the future was to be barren of delight.
About two miles from Geneva, before the daylight was quite gone, they were both startled by hearing a rushing, crashing sound coming toward them in the woods.

Were their pursuers upon them after all?
Had they chosen this, the most lonely part of their road, to fall upon them?
They did not speak their thoughts to one another.