I thought she had gone up long before.

But there was her black slender figure, her white face under the roses of her hat.
She stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting--or as if unconscious of where she was.
The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they hadn't budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her.

Which was horrible.
Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things--for him.

He declared first it was a mercy in a sense.

Then he asked me if it were not real madness, to saddle one's existence with such a perpetual reminder.