And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. Immediately after it, he was off again, and that, let me tell you, was the last anyone saw of him. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore.
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