“Child!” he cried. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. I am carrying back a hundred new books and forty new records for the piano-player. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it.
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