She moved past him; and as she passed she bent down, took his head between her two hands, and kissed it. Then she went to the door, and, flinging it wide open, inhaled the cool, strong northeast wind. As she stood thus, with her straight, sturdy back turned to him, he seemed to get a supernatural glimpse of the whole power of her personality. This teashop and that hill “towards Pendomer” were only little, material symbols of a Napoleonic campaign that she was working out⁠ ⁠… not necessarily in this world at all, but in some world, some level of psychic conflict, parallel with his “mythology.”