A home, he calls it, for destitute gentlewomen. For a moment I gaze at the words in a sort of disbelief: as if my gazing at them will change them, change their meaning or shape. Then I look at the woman. ''This is a mistake,'' I say. ''He didn''t mean
this. He has misunderstood, or you have. You must take me back__''
''I''m to bring you, and leave you, most particular,'' she says stubbornly again. ''"Poor lady, weak in her head, needs taking to a charity place." There''s charity, ain''t it?''
She nods again to the house. I do not answer. I am remembering Mr Hawtrey''s look—his words, the odd tone of his voice. I think, / must go back! I must go back to Holywell Street!—and yet, even as I think it, I know, with a dreadful chill contraction of my heart, what I will find there if I do: the shop, the men, the youth; and Mr Hawtrey gone, to his own home—his home, which might be anywhere in the city, anywhere at all... And after that, the street—the street in darkness.—How shall I manage it? How shall I live a night, in London, on my own?
I begin to shake. ''What am I to do?'' I say.
''What, but go over,'' says the woman, nodding again to the house. The girl with the taper is gone, and the lamp burns feebly. The windows are shuttered, the glass above them black, as if the rooms are filled with darkness. The door is high—divided in two, like the great front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.