She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald. For some days we shall be very idle there among the trees and rocks.
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