of self-preservation recoiled from the depth of the fall
into that sort of slimy, deep trench. Mrs Verloc closed the window, and
dressed herself to go out into the street by another way. She was a free
woman. She had dressed herself thoroughly, down to the tying of a black
veil over her face. As she appeared before him in the light of the
parlour, Mr Verloc observed that she had even her little handbag hanging
from her left wrist. . . . Flying off to her mother, of course.

The thought that women were wearisome creatures after all presented
itself to his fatigued brain. But he was too generous to harbour it for
more than an instant. This man, hurt cruelly in his vanity, remained
magnanimous in his conduct, allowing himself no satisfaction of a bitter
smile or of a contemptuous gesture. With true greatness of soul, he only
glanced at the wooden clock on the wall, and said in a perfectly calm but
forcible manner:

"Five and twenty minutes past eight, Winnie. There's no sense in going
over there so late. You will never manage to get back to-night."

Before his extended hand Mrs Verloc had stopped short. He added heavily:
"Your mother will be gone to bed before you get there. This is the sort
of news that can wait."

Nothing was further from Mrs Verloc's thoughts than going to her mother.
She recoiled at the mere idea, and feeling a chair behind her, she obeyed
the suggestion of the touch, and sat down. Her intention had been simply
to get outside the door for ever. And if this feeling was correct, its
mental form took an unrefined shape corresponding to her origin and
station. "I would rather walk the streets all the days of my life," she
thought. But this creature, whose moral nature had been subjected to a
shock of which, in the physical order, the most violent earthquake of
history could only be a faint and languid rendering, was at the mercy of
mere trifles, of casual contacts. She sat down. With her hat and veil
she had the air of a visitor, of having looked in on Mr Verloc for a
moment. Her instant docility encouraged him, whilst her aspect of only
temporary and silent acquiescence provoked him a little.

"Let me tell you, Winnie," he said with authority, "that your place is
here this evening. Hang it all! you brought the damned police high and
low about my ears. I don't blame you--but it's your doing all the same.
You'd better take this confounded hat off. I can't let you go out, old
girl,"