''Must we go far?'' I ask her at last.
''Not too far, dearie.''╩思╩兔╩在╩線╩閱╩讀╩
Her voice is still rough, her face without expression. I say, fretfully, ''Do you call me that? I wish you wouldn''t.''
She shrugs. The gesture is so bold and yet so careless, I think I do then grow uneasy. I put my face again to the window, to try to draw in air. The air will not come. Where is Holywell Street, I think, from here?
''I don''t like this,'' I say, turning back to the woman. ''May we not walk?''
''Walk, in them slippers?'' She snorts. She looks out. ''Here''s
Camden Town,'' she says. ''We''ve a fair way, yet. Sit back and be
good.''
''Will you talk to me, so?'' I say again. ''I am not a child.''
And again, she shrugs. We drive on, more smoothly. We drive for perhaps, half an hour, up a rising road. The day is darker now. I am tenser. We have left the lights and shops, and are in some street—some street of plain buildings. We turn a corner, and the buildings grow plainer still. Presen