For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. “The Widgetts,” she said. Better get a dress. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. Startled by this circumstance, he looked around, and perceived that the trap-door,—which has been mentioned as communicating with a secret staircase,—was open. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day. She would never again be lonely. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Deep silences came between them.
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