She started out on her great adventure with a strange self-assurance
as though loving Martin had given her the wisdom of all the ages.
Turning down the street towards the Strand she found almost at once
a taxi-cab drawn up, as though it had been waiting there especially
for her like an eloping coach in a romantic tale. A fat red-faced
fellow with a purple nose, a cloth cap and a familiar vague eye, as
though he always saw further than he intended, waited patiently for
her to speak.
Boldly, as though she had done such things all her life, she said,
"Fourteen Bryanston Square." Then she slipped in and was hidden from
the gay world. She sat there, her hands on her lap staring at the
three crimson rolls in the neck of her driver. She was thinking of
nothing, nothing at all. Did she struggle to think? Only words would
come, "Martin," or "Bryanston Square," or "cab," again and again,
words that did not mean anything but physical sensations. "Martin"
hot fire at the throat, "Bryanston Square" an iron rod down the
spine, and "cab" dust and ashes in the eyes.
She tried to look at herself in the little mirror opposite her, but
she could only catch the corner of her cheek and half her hat.
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