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"Then we're imprisoned. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word.
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