The cameo has movable parts on its face. They all enact the same story. The cameo is heavy. It is not something to wear on a dress. It is more at home where you would put a clock; on a mantel-piece, for example, with a log fire somewhere below casting on the dramatic mechanism a domestic pathos. When looked at properly, the parts act thus:

He and she are walking along the top of a cliff. You can sense the springy chalk-turf and a large expanse of downs open to the left. The horizon seems never to end. The two walk side by side, silent, not touching. She steps to the right, over the edge of the cliff. He grabs her arm, but her impetus carries them over and down, to alight on a green shelf only about two feet below the cliff-top, which she,
walking closer to the edge, had seen; but he not. He had almost twisted her arm out of its socket trying to save her. She is moaning and waving the strangled limb, screaming and accusing him. He has bent his head on his arms. He too is in tears.