In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right.
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