’ Amusement flickered in Gerald’s breast. Your purpose is done. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. Remember what the conjuror said. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked.
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