“I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. But he was not a father one could make much of. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all.
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