It was also uncomfortable, even when one owned a well-sprung carriage with thick, soft cushions. Even so, Vincent was in no hurry for the journey to end. He was a coward. Though part of him was excited too at the prospect of being home, of starting an entirely new life. And it would be new, partly because the circumstances of his life had changed, and partly because he was determined not merely to drift onward in the same vein as before. They rode in silence much of the time. But it was not an awkward silence. They did talk too. She described features of particular interest that they passed, and once she held forth for what must have been close to half an hour on everything that was not of interest—a gray, cloudy sky; a whole copse of trees with black trunks and branches and no leaves; a fly-infested dung heap; cows too indolent to stand up in their meadow; a field full of dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of sheep, not a single one of which was black; a stretch of flat land without even a molehill to break the monotony—until he was helpless with laughter.
