She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses. One transgression; he was sure of that. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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