Horrible details recurred to her. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. They even threatened to cut the traces and take off the wheels from the carriage. From one window the beach was always visible; from another, the stores. The doors were closed and barricaded, and the mob threatened to burst them open if Jack was not delivered to them. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “Yes, John.
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