Not alone with her, that’s sure. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. Wood, contemptuously. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. You want me to be clean.
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