It was done. Birkin snapped the hand bags, off they went, the porter
coming behind. They were through a great doorway, and in the open night
again--ah, a railway platform! Voices were still calling in inhuman
agitation through the dark-grey air, spectres were running along the
darkness between the train.
'Koln--Berlin--' Ursula made out on the boards hung on the high train
on one side.
'Here we are,' said Birkin. And on her side she saw:
'Elsass--Lothringen--Luxembourg, Metz--Basle.'
'That was it, Basle!'
The porter came up.
'A Bale--deuxieme classe?--Voila!' And he clambered into the high
train. They followed. The compartments were already some of them taken.
But many were dim and empty. The luggage was stowed, the porter was
tipped.
'Nous avons encore--?' said Birkin, looking at his watch and at the
porter.
'Encore une demi-heure.' With which, in his blue blouse, he
disappeared. He was ugly and insolent.
'Come,' said Birkin. 'It is cold. Let us eat.'
There was a coffee-wagon on the platform.
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