self; and once for him.''
I hesitate—but what can I do? I lift my skirt higher, find out the strings at my waist and pull them loose; then, modestly as I can, draw the petticoats down. She does not look away. She takes them from me and tucks them swiftly under her coat.
''What the gentleman don''t know, eh?'' she says, with a chuckle; as if we are close conspirators now. She rubs her hands. ''Where to, then? Eh? Where must I tell the driver?''
She has opened the window, to call. I sit with my arms about myself, feeling the prickle of the fabric of my gown against my bare thighs. I think I would colour, I think I would weep, if I had life enough.
''Where to?'' she asks again. Beyond her head, the street is filled with shadow. A moon has risen—a crescent, slender, filthy-brown.
I bow my head. With this last, awful bafflement of my hopes, I have only one place to go. I tell her, she calls it, and the coach starts up. She settles herself more comfortably in her seat, rearranges her coat. She looks at me.
All right, dearie?'' she says. I do not answer, and she laughs. She turns away. ''Don''t mind it now, does she?'' she says, as if to herself. ''Don''t mind it, now.''
Lant Street is dark when we reach it. I know the house to stop at,
from the house which faces it—the one with the ointment-coloured shutters, that I have gazed at so hard from Mrs Sucksby''s window John answers my knock. His face is white. He sees me, and stares ''Fuck,'' he says. I go past him. The door leads into what I suppose is Mr Ibbs''s shop, and a passage from that takes me directly into the kitchen. They are all there, apart from Richard. He is out in search of me. Dainty is weeping: her cheek is bruised, worse than before, her lip split and bleeding. Mr Ibbs paces in his shirt-sleeves, making the floorboards jump and creak. Mrs Sucksby stands, her eyes on nothing, her face white as powder, like John''s. She stands still. But when she sees me come she folds and winces—puts her hand to her heart as if struck.