It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. The devil is on top, not below. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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