He turned and saw Miss Jones.
He would have fled had flight been in any way possible, but she had looked up and seen him, and her sudden arrested sniff held them both there as though by some third invisible power.

He saw that she was crying; he saw her red nose, mottled cheeks, untidy hair.

It was the most awful moment of his young life.

He had never seen a grown-up person cry before; he had no idea that they ever did cry.

He had, indeed, never realised that grown-up persons had any active histories at all, any histories in the sense in which he and Mary had them.