" "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. ‘Ah, grandpére. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. Also, you must send someone to fetch my horse—at least, it is not mine but I have borrowed it to come here—because it will be dark very soon and—’ ‘Woof! Hold it, hold it,’ begged the sergeant. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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