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He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. No, not one little bit. Then I cross-checked it with the name Alberti. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him.
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