She walked back to the car. He heard the door close; and in a little while he fell into a doze; and there came a dream filled with broken pictures, each one of which the girl dominated. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. She bent down. “It is a hateful story.
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