She dived at once behind the cover of the lamproom and affected serious trouble with her shoe-lace until he was out of the station, and then she followed slowly and with extreme discretion until the bifurcation of the Avenue from the field way insured her escape. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. Then, naturally, I went on talking. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last.
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