“Where?”
“I speak only of women in the mass. There are of course exceptions.”
“Go on, go on.”
“I see you are annoyed. Let us leave this matter.”
“Kindly go on.”
“There is nothing more to say.” He laughed . He was not even being aware that it was a matter of life and death. He could go on serenely living in an idea, that turned life into a nightmare.
“Oh if it amuses you.” He was silent. The moments went beating on. She turned from him and sat averted. She would go now onward and onward till she could get away over the edge of the world. There was nothing else to do. There were no thoughts or words in which her conviction could take shape. Even looking for them was a degradation. Besides, argument, if she could steady herself to face the pain of it, would not, whatever he might say, even dislodge his satisfied unconcern. He was uneasy; but only about herself, and would accept reassurance from her, without a single backward glance. But what did their personal fate matter beside a question so all-embracing? What future could they have in unacknowledged disagreement over central truth? And if it were acknowledged, what peace?
The long corridor of London imprisoned her. Far away beneath her tumult it was making its appeal, renewing the immortal compact. The irregular façades, dull greys absorbing the light, bright buffs throwing it brilliantly out, dadoed below with a patchwork of shops, and overhead the crisscross of telephone wires, shut her away from the low-hung soft grey sky. But far away, unfailing, retreating as the long corridor telescoped towards them, an obliterating saffron haze filled the vista, holding her in her place.