She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. If only—Anna, tell me,” she broke off suddenly, “how did you get to know Mr. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home.
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