It is not the woman who speaks there. For I still love her mother. I have only one question to ask you. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist.
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