''You needn''t. You might stay at your sewing, if you like ..."
''Mrs Sucksby says I must go with you, every time; else I''ll catch it. Here.''
She sighs, and stretches. The silk of her gown is stained beneath the arms, the stain edged white. She takes out the key, unlocks the door, leads me into the passage. I go slowly, watching the lurching of her back. I remember having run from her before, and how she caught me: I know that, even if I might hit her aside now, she would only rise again at once and chase me. I might knock her head against the bricks . . . But I imagine doing it, and my wrists grow weak, I don''t think I could.
''Go on,'' she says, when I hesitate. ''Why, what''s up?''
''Nothing.'' I catch hold of the privy door and draw it to me, slowly. ''You needn''t wait,'' I say.
''No, I''ll wait.'' She leans against the wall. ''Do me good, take the air.''
The air is warm and foul. In the privy it is warmer, and fouler. But I step inside and close the door and bolt it; then look about me. There is a little window, no bigger than my head, its broken pane stopped up with rag. There are spiders, and flies. The privy seat is cracked and smeared. I stand and think, perhaps for a minute. All right?'' calls Dainty. I do not answer. The floor is earth, stamped hard. The walls are powdery white. From a wire hang strips o