It is azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . "
Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by indignation
but there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You say I don't know
women. Maybe. It's just as well not to come too close to the shrine.
But I have a clear notion of _woman_. In all of them, termagant, flirt,
crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even in the ordinary fool
of the ordinary commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And
when there is a spark there can always be a flame . . . "
He went back into the shadow and sat down again.
"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that could
live by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. But still,
in the distrust of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of
love, as women will. And that confounded jail was the only spot where
she could see it--for she had no reason to distrust her father.
She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at these
walls which are, properly speaking, awful.
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