She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. “I was sick of the make-believe. Courtlaw might have been able to give me an idea where to stop. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. ’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said.
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