Come on. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Miching Mallecho. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments.
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