It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. Section 3. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride.
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