Nicholas is dead. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. It is really cheap, you know. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. There was something holding women down, holding women back, and if it wasn’t exactly man-made law, man-made law was an aspect of it. She pushed. .
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