The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. And, if Rachel had not carried a candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness.
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