“Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. He turned. I'm a slave to my word. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. Worse than any man.
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