Explore "Quicksands" by B.M. Croker on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Trains from the station nearest to Beke ran at inconceivably inconvenient hours; for instance, a quarter to eight in the morning, and half-past four in the afternoon, the latter wandering into London about midnight. Ronnie, of course, departed by the first, and I took leave of him in the front hall with copious tears (the professor, in a plaid dressing-gown, and with dishevelled locks, peering over the banisters).
"Buck up, old girl!" he said; "it will be all right; within six months you will be hugging me in India. Mind you write every mail, take great care of yourself -- and -- er -- good-bye." Then he tore himself away, and ran down the tiled footpath to where an aged fly -- once the equipage of a countess -- and a sprightly young horse were waiting to transport him to the junction.