She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. Her voice was weak and flat. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. He seemed resigned but cheerful, and held frequent and serious discourses with the ordinary, who felt satisfied of his sincere penitence. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. The inside was empty except for an infant, which from a distance looked utterly normal. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. Presently. “Well?” she said, sitting down again.
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