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Back inEngland, all these years, now, I had been deprived of femalecompanionship. The social gulf between myself and the farmers ofWhite Ladies Bottom is unbridgeable, and I seldom get into thecity. Even had I found a suitable wife, I felt I could notafford to keep her in the proper style. I confess, thinkingabout the young woman had aroused sexual yearnings that I hadtried hard to suppress. It was almost midday, and I had read but a hundred pages,when Mrs. Trumble announced that the young lady was ready todepart. "Leave us, a moment," I said, as she ushered the womaninto the room. Marie-cecile had greatly improved in herappearance. Her face was clean, her hair combed and pinned up. I had meant to give her a shilling and send her on her way, but Icould not bring myself to give up looking at her. For all thatshe was fully mature, her thinness and frailty gave her achildlike appearance. Her small breasts, hardly filling thebodice of her simple dress, would not have been. Some kinds ofwomen understand each other better than sisters, and we are of similartype, she and I. I think maybe I have softened some with age. Mypassions no longer drive my spirit as they once did."She draws a book out of her purse, a tiny book, a book you would not seeon a shelf among its brethren. But this book, it is a valuable thing, athing of power. I have killed for much less than this book."We drove for a long time and she spoke at length about this tiny book ofpower, and the things she could do with it, could, but probably wouldn't.She explained that she had no use for power for herself, any more, butthat she enjoyed having things of power. She had enemies, and even somefriends, from whom she needed protection.I could only see through the dirty windows of the back. The one above meshowed only those things hanging over the truck. The other side gave mea full view, but looking down that hard made my eyes hurt quickly, so Icould only steal glances. We passed from.
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