Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. This, then, was the woman from whom Hoddy would not have accepted a cup of water. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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