Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. At other times, it would seem that the sea itself had gone away. Like stealing. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. I have been insulted, and cursed at, and threatened with both pistol and dagger.
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