F. CHAPTER XVII. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. Dorling said deferentially. 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. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. ‘Well, that depends. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away.
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