The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled. “I feared we might have a fog. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. “I wonder if there are any good women really. The knife is at my breast.
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