The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. She dived at once behind the cover of the lamproom and affected serious trouble with her shoe-lace until he was out of the station, and then she followed slowly and with extreme discretion until the bifurcation of the Avenue from the field way insured her escape. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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