. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. . . “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. I only know that it is right to do what I do. I was being stupid. Not Trodger. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. “This is the slavery of the veiled life.
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