Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours. “One hardly knows—all the time. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. I’m not sure if Janine cared. She chuckled. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. And he did not lack courage. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. "It's a great world," was the manager's greeting.
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