I say notand s raction, to akes my arm. to a set of stairs. teps  top: In here.

    t up for ting and binding of books. In one, type; anotreys orongly of glue. Its in t ables are piled  ty. One o typesetters room—ed glass panels in it. t visible, bending over their work.

    t  ask me to sit. ands before it. akes out a e.

    Good God, s only thing.

    , more kindly; and I urn away.

    Im sorry, I say. My voice is not steady. Im afraid I o you to weep.

    You may ed glass.

    But I   my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.

    My dear, ly at last.  have you done?

    Dont ask me.

    You have run away.

    From my uncle, yes.

    From your hink.

    My ?

    he shrugs, colours, looks away.

    I say, You t kno  t  you like of me, I dont care. But you must help me.

    ill you?

    My dear—

    You . I o stay in. You used to like to say you would make me welcome—

    Despite myself, my voice is rising.

    Be calmer, ing o soot not moving from  t are my staff to tly, sending up a riddling name . . .   ers say, my wife?

    I am sorry.

    Again s out ell me, o me. You mustnt take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see  nt kno  you off, you kno, ?

    I so me, now.

    But o me, you understand. If he should hear of your coming—

    .

    ell. roubled again. But to come to me! to come akes in my gaudy dress and gloves—y, lustreless, we. I sill frowning, you seem so c, and your ?