“Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. “I guess I’m not the only one who wonders about your past. ‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. Part 3 She dismissed the first hotels she passed, she scarcely knew why, mainly perhaps from the mere dread of entering them, and crossed Waterloo Bridge at a leisurely pace.
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