“But I ought not to recommend you to read. You ought to spend all your free time in the open air. Moreover, it’s very stiff reading.”
Miriam rose, beleaguered and flinching. How did people find out about books? Where did they get them from? This woman could not afford to buy big expensive volumes. … Why did her quick mind assume that the difficulty of the book would be a barrier, and not see that it was the one book she was waiting for, even if it were the stiffest and dryest in the world? … But the title was unforgettable; one day she would come across the book somewhere and get at its meaning in her own way.
“Well; we may meet next week, if we are both early; I shall be early.” She rose enlivening her grey cloak with the swift grace of her movements and together they proceeded down the rapidly emptying room.
“My name is Lucie Duclaux.”
The shock of this unexpected advance arrested Miriam’s rapid flight towards the harbour of solitude. She smiled a formal acknowledgment, unable and entirely unwilling to identify herself with a name. Her companion, remaining close in her neighbourhood as they threaded their way amongst talking groups along the corridor, said nothing more, and when they reached the doorway Miriam’s determination to be free, kept her blind and dumb. She was aware of an exclamation about the rain. That was enough. She would not risk a parting intimate enough to suggest another meeting, with anyone who at the sight of rain, belaboured the air and the people about her, with an exclamation that was, however gracious and elegant, a deliberate assault, condemning her moreover of the possession of two voices. … Gathering up her Lucie Duclaux cloak, the woman bowed swiftly and disappeared into the night.