This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Kneebone. “Come,” she said. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. A man has more freedom to do evil than a woman.
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