Then she laid hold of me by the arm and, looking searchingly
into my face, said:
"Who are you? . . . I know. You are Mary O'Neill, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I knew you were. I read about your marriage to that . . . that man. And
now you are wondering why I am here. Well, come home with me and see."
It was not until afterwards that I knew by what mistake about my
presence in that place Angela thought she must justify herself in my
eyes (mine!); but taking me by the hand, just as she used to do when I
was a child, she led, almost pulled, me down Piccadilly, and my will was
so broken that I did not attempt to resist her.
We crossed Piccadilly Circus, with its white sheet of electric light,
and, turning into the darker thoroughfares on the northern side of it,
walked on until, in a narrow street of the Italian quarter of Soho, we
stopped at a private door by the side of a cafe that had an Italian name
on the window.
"This is where we live. Come in," said Angela, and I followed her
through a long empty lobby and up three flights of bare stairs.
Pages:
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926