She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. While this was effected, intelligence was brought that a formidable mob was pouring down Field Lane, the end of which was barricaded. She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. Mr. She seemed to grow more beautiful to him and not the opposite. It cost her seventy-seven dollars.
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